Well done!+1

... it's definitely good and, actually, being a Lost In Space virgin might be a good thing as you'll go into it with nothing to bias you where the previous version are concerned.

Okay, so I caught the first couple of episodes of Netflix's Lost In Space reboot, today. I've gotta say, so far, so good!

Definitely lacks the camp of the original 60's TV show (which I loved as a kid, by the way) but, to my way of thinking, that's a good thing. Also, even having just watched the first two episodes, it's orders of magnitude better that the 1998 cinematic version (even though, as bad as it was, I enjoyed, as well, if for nothing else than nostalgia). There's more a mystery/drama vibe going on with this one... Dr Smith has been gender swapped (played by Parker Posey with neurotic/psychopathic excellence). The Robinson's aren't exactly the strong, nuclear family they were in other versions, either... In fact, there seems to be some estrangement where John (the father) is concerned... and, the robot is apparently of 'alien origin' (and is utterly bad ass, in my opinion)!

Been a very enjoyable watch, so far! Here's hoping it keeps up!

PM away whenever you like.

For posts where scenes/conversations between players (or even NPCs) might get lengthy, collaborative posts are usually a good option. These, of course, are posts in which one or more players (and possibly the GM, depending on the characters in the scene) get together via PM or possibly even chat and co-write a single post... For example, let's say Karos arrives at Halfred's and he and Castien end up in a lengthy conversation. As opposed to you writing a line or two, then posting and waiting for me to write a line or two in response, one of us could start the interaction and send it to the other via PM. The other player could then fill in his character's response/actions/add to the conversation, and send it back. We'd keep going like this until, in the end, we have a single, substantial post which one or the other of us would tack up in the game thread (like Nomad and I did with Castle and Haze in your supernatural game, for instance).

It's been my experience that, in a lot of cases, this helps with, not only curtailing the amount of "single sentance posts" but, also, kind of gives you a feel for one another's writing styles and, in some sense, might even get you working toward adding that "level of detail" you're looking to inject into your own, solo posts. *shrugs* Just a thought.

Also, say you're writing a post in which you don't need a whole lot of interaction between your character and another player's but you might need a simple response or reaction from said player to fill in a certain section. Rather than popping in an OOC comment "assuming a response" you always have the option of PMing that other player and asking them "Hey! What would Castien do or say in this instance?" In most cases (especially where I'm concerned, anyway) your Innmates are happy to provide a sentance or two from their character that you can simply pop into your post and continue on.

In the end, it comes down to what the GM prefers, really, but, as a general rule of thumb I approach it this way:

1) If it's an NPC of your own creation and the interaction doesn't directly affect the mechanics of the game, you're typically okay to write the entire interaction yourself. For example, the bits between Castien and Silva were 100% me... none of that will likely effect the game to any huge degree unless Lady D pulls Silva into play somewhere down the line. Should that happen, I'd certainly rely on Lady Dark to respond/react for Silva in those situations.

2) That said, the interaction that Castien had with Lys was also, pretty much, written on my own. I did, however, ask Lady Dark if she'd prefer to collaborate and, since she and I have played/written together so muc in the past, she was gracious enough to "let me run with" the conversation. I did update her as I went, just to make sure that there wasn't anything I'd put in there which didn't match what she might have in mind for Lys.

3) Finally, when Castien arrives at the Halfred's and speaks with the half-orc girl, I didn't go any farther than her greeting him as, i imagined that the girl may not have been Girta'a but possibly her sister instead and, following the greeting, and presumably "formally meeting" Girta'a, I have absolutely no idea what she might have to say or what she might do; therefore, I left it where it was and am anxiously looking forward to Friday when Lady Dark hits us with an update.

There, that's my two coppers on NPC interaction... Now, as to "improving your posts." I'm sure you'll do just fine! I've seen your writing and have the utmost faith that whatever you write up will be fantastic! If you have any questions, concerns, or just want to bat ideas back and forth, though, feel free to drop me (or any of us) a line. I'm sure any one of us would be happy to help you out wherever we can!

Nicely done, Chess.

Glad you enjoyed them! I have to admit that a good deal of mine sort of came from me toying around with what Cas' personality might be like... life in the Temple, relationships he might have forged, etc... and, as those random thoughts swirled, I just chased them down the rabbit hole and that's what came out of it! Definitely fun to write... surprised myself a time or two, as well, so I know whatever comes next is gonna be epic!

Kinda like Bory's intro! Awesome stuff, Nomad!

Looking forward to your post, Chess!

Oh... P.S. Wasn't sure exactly what time Bory might have arrived at Halfred's, so, in my last post, I left it ambiguous as to whether or not the gnome was there when Cas arrived.

Watertown; The Temple of Astryliene – Castien’s chambers – 6:30 a.m.

“There,” Silva sighed, happily and sadly, all at once, as she secured the black and grey cloak that constituted Castien’s vestments to the pauldrons of his blue-grey leathers with a silver brooch, “That should do.” Despite her assurances, she spent another moment adjusting the folds and spill of the cape with delicate fingers. Then, when she could fidget no more without just cause, she lifted her hands and her lips to his face. “Remember your promise, Castien Mithretaryl,” she prompted, her lips still close enough to brush delicately over his with every word, “and come home to me.”

“Of course, melamin,” Castien smiled softly against her mouth as one hand lifted to entangle itself in the violet spill of hair that fell at her neck, “Cormamin niuve en lle coia orn n’omenta gurtha.”

“As will mine, my love,” the tiny sorceress sighed as her arms wrapped around his leather clad form and pulled him close, “It always does.”

As her head pressed to his chest, his dipped to lay against hers and his own arms tightened around her lithe frame. “Study well whilst I’m away,” he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips, “and, perhaps, I’ll make a Blade of you when I return.”

The apples of the girl’s cheeks ripened against the embossed lightning bolts on which they rested against his leathers. “I will,” she promised softly, her smile widening all the more at his use of the word ‘when’ as opposed to ‘if,’ “and, I’ll hold you to those words, “arna’amin.”

“Do so,” he answered, ruefully peeling her from his chest and holding her at arm’s length so that he might gaze on her face once more before he chose to depart, “I shall make them good. Amin mela lle, Silva.”

“Amin mela lle, Cas,” she cooed, lifting herself on her toes to taste his lips, again, “Na’varna.”

“Always,” he purred, the black leather clad tips of his fingers stroking along the tear dampened curve of her cheek.

With that, she stepped away from him and allowed him to take up his shield. “Give Sister Lys my best,” she said as Castien reached for the door handle, “and have her give you mine.”

“I have that already,” Cas smiled, his fingers brushing a ribbon he’d taken from her hair and tied about the hilt of his blade, as he backed from the room, “Tenna’ ento lye omento, melui.”

“Tenna’ ento lye omento,” she whispered in reply as the door closed behind him. When the latch clicked, Silva allowed the tears that she’d dammed behind her lids to spill freely over her cheeks and, before the sobs racked her chest, pounced herself back into his abandoned bed, pulling the covers close around her to absorb his scent.

Watertown; The Temple of Astryliene – Lys’ suite – 6:40 a.m.

He rapped softly against the door of Lys’ rooms, the warmth in his heart swelling all the more as he waited his dear friend’s answer. And more still when he perceived her soft footsteps approaching. As the first staccato notes of her turning of the handle whispered to his ears, Castien took a knee on his side of the threshold, and, as the hinges creaked softly as Lys opened the door, he smiled as he greeted her, though his eyes, then, only saw the floorboards beneath him; “Quel amrun, seler’amin.”

He felt her hand rest on the crown of his head, then, and the warmth of her touch radiate through him even before her voice reached his ears. “Quel amrun, toror’ai,” her voice caressed over the air, “You know, of course, that, between you and I, such formalities are not needed.”

“It is respect, Lys,” Castien smiled, his gaze lifting only then to regard the porcelain masked visage that hovered over him, “not formality, which I offer.”

The woman chuckled softly, her hand coming away from his head then. “As always, my dear boy,” she returned, “I expected I might be seeing you. Please, come in.”

Castien rose, then, and smiled at the finely crafted mask that regarded him as he came to his full height. “I received your letter,” he told her as she admitted him across the threshold, “Had it been any other than you, I might have been offended that a personal visit hadn’t arrived in it’s stead.”

“Silva had other plans that I was loathe to interrupt,” Lys tittered softly as the young, elven fighter stepped into her chambers and she pushed the door shut, once more. The giggle became a full-blown yet still soft laugh as Castien’s cheeks flushed and his eyes flicked her way…

“You knew?”

“Anyone with eyes and a heart knew, boy,” she replied, waving him toward the divan that occupied the center of her living quarters, “Silva and yourself have had a destiny since she was here scarcely a month. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s sweet.”

A nervous chuckle shushed over Castien’s lips as he purposefully tried to avoid the eyes peering at him from behind that mask and he meandered toward the sunset strewn sofa to which he’d been directed. “I’ve moved her into my rooms,” he admitted, more easily than he might have even to the Grand High Father and Mother, “She’ll be staying there until I return, at least.”

“And, hopefully, long after,” Lys returned softly, following the young elf towards the couch. “We’ve all known, for some time, that you and she were meant to be.

Have you had breakfast?”

“No,” Castien admitted, depositing his mother’s shield beside the sofa and laying his scimitar beside it before he sat, “but I do not visit for food, Sister, only to thank you for the task you’ve set before me.”

“A task better undertaken on a stomach that is not empty, Castien,” Lys replied, her elegant steps positioning her before him for an instant, “and, your thanks are unnecessary. This task I’ve laid before you is unlike any I have lain before a blade in all of my years. Were it not for your zeal and the honor I know to burn in your heart, I’d have not offered it to another.

Tea? Toast?”

“Please,” Castien nodded humbly, “both. I am hungry.”

Lys’ laughter went from trilling to deep as she nodded and wandered away toward another room; “I imagine you are. Eggs, as well, I’d guess?”

“If you have them to spare, Mother.”

“For you, my boy,” she purred, disappearing through an arched doorway, “I do.

Would you mind if I removed my mask?”

“Have I ever?” The elven lad called behind her.

“You have not,” Lys answered, “which is a good part of the reason I’ve chosen you for this particular trial, to begin with.

I confess,” she continued, her voice echoing softly through the narrow confines of her suite. “I had expected you to visit me before you left, Castien, but not at such an early hour.”

The young elf grinned. “Something Silva said to me, last night,” he said, “made me think of you and, after I received your letter, speaking to you couldn’t go avoided in good conscience.”

The laughter that filtered through the chambers, then, was warm and smoky; comforting and warm in it’s timbre. “And what might these sage words have been, I wonder,” Lys inquired as she appeared in the archway that separated the rooms of her suite, bearing a tray laden with a tea service and a couple of plates decked with what she intended to be their breakfast.

“Thank you, Lys,” Castien smiled, gazing upon the woman’s true face and feeling privileged to be one of the few, ever to have done so, “For everything you have done for me. For bringing my heart, if not my body, to the service of Astryliene.”

Lys may very well have paused in genuine surprise at the young Blade’s words and, in all it’s bare authenticity, her face contorted in a manner that might have belied her astonishment in some small way. “Whatever do you…”

“I love you, Lys,” Castien interrupted her, rising from the couch where she had seated him as he did, “You have been a mentor, a mother, and more to me for as long as I can recall. I don’t know that I’ve ever thanked you for that and, given this,” he pulled her folded letter from where it had been tucked away in the pouch on his belt, “I wanted to be sure you knew my gratitude.”

“I have never not known it, Castien,” the woman replied softly, setting the tray on the low table between them and gathering the folds of her robes about her as she seated herself, “regardless of whether you spoke the words or not.” She waved him back to his seat, then, as she set about pouring tea for the both of them. It was only when the cups were filled and she lifted one to offer over to the elf that her eyes met his again and a gentle smile played on her features; “I love you, too, my dear boy… and you are more than welcome.”

She waited as he accepted the cup she’d offered and seated himself, once more. When he had done so and the cup was lifted to his lips, she took up her own and, following a sip of the tea, continued; “Of the countless faces I have seen pass through these halls in my many, many years, it has been yours in which I have seen the truest representation of everything She asks of us. Your heart is calm as the peace in the eye of the Storm and your commitment to Her teachings as fierce as the maelstrom at it’s most furious. Since Astryliene, herself, walked this world, there have been few who embodied her ways to the extent you do.” The vestiges of a smile still twinkled in her eyes but, save for that, her features had gone somber. “This path that you set upon, now, will test all of that,” the warning tone of the words was impossible to miss, “more than any other trial you have ever faced, my friend, and it is only my faith in your conviction that keeps me from worrying overmuch at setting you upon it.”

For a moment, Castien wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Instead, he set aside his tea cup and helped himself to a piece of toast and one of the small, boiled plover eggs that constituted the breakfast she’d prepared them. He chewed in thoughtful silence as the wise woman eyed him calmly from behind her cup and, when the egg was gone, his eyes found hers, again. “I know the weight of this task you that have laid before me and, more, the importance it holds for you,” he sighed, “Like all of us in this storm between birth and death, I fear I can wreak no great changes on the world, only small ones for the better, I hope, in the lives of those I love. For you, Lys, I promise to find a way of bettering what has been lost in Lya’s passing if nothing else.”

Lys smiled brightly; “The great changes which you don’t believe you can make will be born of those small changes that you can, Castien.” She took up a plate, herself, then, and motioned his attentions back to the one before him. “Let’s talk of this no further, now,” she suggested, “The ferry will be leaving for Watertown soon enough and you have yet to see The Grand High Father. Finish your breakfast.”

Halfred’s Bake Shoppe; Watertown – 8:30 a.m.

The calm in his heart, steeled by words of wisdom and blessing bestowed upon him by Lys, Umanu, and Ulale, bore Astryliene’s Blade peacefully from the Temple and through the streets of the city, all the way to the door of Halfred’s. Despite the tranquility that surrounded him, though, Castien also felt an electric tingle of excitement coursing through him. He’d been out in the world, before, of course, but never in quite the manner in which The Living Storm bade him to venture forth, now. This time, he was alone, with none of his brothers or sisters from the Temple at his side. He knew, of course, that he wouldn’t be facing these challenges completely alone – Lys had assured him that she had summoned certain others to travel to Ghostwood with him – but, he still felt a curious mix of eagerness and foreboding at the prospect of it all and, despite outward appearances, he inwardly struggled to balance the ebb and flow of those conflicting feelings. Standing before the door of the little pastry shop, now, he drew in a deep, soothing breath, squared his shoulders and, then, exhaled just as slowly before pushing through the door and setting his feet upon the proverbial first cobble on this new path.

More than one pair of eyes turned his way as he crossed the threshold. Each gaze, having quietly assessed or opined the Blade’s presence, turned away in due course… all except for that of a half-orc girl whose eyes seemed to be propped up by a broad, toothy smile. “You’re from the Temple,” the girl beamed, wiping her hands on her apron as she crossed the floor to welcome him.

“I am,” Castien smiled in return, offering a bow in greeting, “Sister Lys has sent me here in search of Girta’a. Might you be her?”

The Temple of Astryliene; Watertown – 6:30 p.m.

He sat there on the beach, just at the edge of the surf, his blade resting across his knees, his face turned toward the rays of the setting sun and, also, shadowed by the storm clouds that had begun to gather on that same horizon. As Silva’s dainty steps took her across the sand, she wondered if his eyes were even open; wondered if those eyes were reflecting the blue of the sea or, rather, if the sea were reflecting the blue of his eyes… and she smiled softly when, as she came to a spot where she could truly glimpse his features, she realized that Castien’s eyes were, in fact, closed, blissfully, against both the light and shadow that fell across his face. His breaths were deep and measured. His posture rigid and, at the same time, relaxed. In this moment, in this light, Castien Mithretaryl was a literal picture of serene balance. She stood there, watching him for a long moment, before she let her smile break into a contented, yet, still somewhat sad sigh, and sank into the sand by his side, her eyes turning to where the sun had begun to touch the farthest reaches of the ocean that her eyes could perceive.

She didn’t know how many of his breaths had passed but it had been enough that she had allowed herself to succumb to the steady rhythm and, as such, found herself in almost the same state of peace that she imagined he found in his meditations. When his breathing broke enough for him to speak, she found that she had been lulled enough by his tranquility that she was very nearly asleep…

“You sound worried, melui,” his voice caressed across her heart as much as her ear and, despite the softness of his tone, and the mellow timbre, she very nearly flinched.

“Concerned,” she returned over a faintly shuddering breath of her own, “not so much worried.” Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked at the spot where the sun hissed into the sea before letting her gaze drift sideways. Her heart fluttered and calmed all at once when his deliberate inhalation of the salt air seemed to beckon the storm closer. “The High Father has made a Blade of you,” she sighed, “and I have missed you.” Her hand reached, not quite tentatively, for his, then, and, as her fingers entwined with his where they rest on his thigh just above the blade of his scimitar. “I had thought we would always be together,” she confessed in a whisper, “You and I. Forever.”

Castien’s fingers flexed subtly, curling around hers as his eyes, at last, came open and his face turned to hers. “We will be,” he said, an almost tender smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “We are.

We both walk the path that Astryliene has laid before us, Silva. Just because a fork has appeared in that path, with you taking the left and I the right, does not mean that we are no longer together,” he reassured her, lifting her had from his leg and placing it against his chest, over his heart, “I carry you here, always, and I have faith that She will rejoin our roads when the time is right.”

At these words, the melancholy that had tinged the half-elven girl’s smile began to drain away. Beneath her palm, where his hand held it gently to his chest, she felt the soft thudding of his heartbeat, steady and certain, and still more of the sadness seeped from her mood. Even after all the years she had known him and all the years that she, herself, had been a devoted disciple of Astryliene, Castien’s faultless faith in The Living Storm never failed to amaze her…

Which is why they made him a Blade to begin with, a soft voice whispered in the ear of her mind. If it helps, that voice continued, his love for Her is matched only by his love for you.

…Silva was almost happy that, as her silver eyes lifted to his, that her hair had come loose from it’s pins and fallen in lavender waves across her face to mask the blush that had come to her cheeks. Shush, she mentally whispered in reply, Run along and leave us alone, won’t you?

I’m your familiar, dearest, the voice whispered back, that’s not usually what we do; as this may turn out to be a particularly, shall we say, ‘poignant’ moment, however…

A bit further up the beach, near where the foundations of the Temple met the sand, a smallish, black and white mouse scampered into a chink in the mortar between stones and Silva felt Daynty’s presence leave her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For?” Castien asked confusedly.

Silva blinked several times, then, in spite of herself, giggled and pushed her hair back behind one, subtly pointed ear. “Nothing,” she tittered, at first, not wanting to admit that Daynty had been listening in. Then, as her snickering subsided and her mind found itself back along it’s original track, she lifted her free hand to his cheek and said; “And for everything.” Her smile softened a little and she searched his quizzical face for a long moment. “Faith seems to come so easily to you, Cas,” she murmured, “and, if it wasn’t for that, and for being paired with you, I don’t know that I’d have managed my first years here, let alone become what I have…”

It was Castien’s turn to blink, then, and, as he did, his mouth fell open as if he were about to speak. Silva hindered whatever words might have begun to form on his lips, though, when her fingers slid from his cheek to press against them.

“…Let me say this,” she implored, “for, I fear, if I don’t say it, now, I’ll not be able to say it, ever…”

His nod was so subtle that she only perceived it as a negligible change of pressure where her fingers met his mouth, but his eyes blinked once more and, then, fixed attentively on hers. She knew he was listening, then, and that he’d say nothing until he was certain she was finished… it had always been his way. She felt her heart melting and, despite the fact that she was smiling, felt tears welling in her eyes. “Do you remember when first we met,” she asked, her fingers yet to fall from his lips.

Castien nodded, again, in that soft, almost imperceptible way of his, and the corners of Silva’s mouth almost fluttered at the inborne innocence of it.

“…I thought I was nothing, then,” she sighed, her voice wavering as she struggles to control the emotions evoked by the memories, “Just the unfortunate product of the lust of a nameless, round-ear father and the point-eared, elven ‘whore’ who didn’t care enough to keep me. For eight years, I lived my life believing that no one cared and that no one had any right to be cared for. Then, when my mother died and the Sisters took me in, I had no reason to believe that it would be any different…” Her efforts to contain the tears failed, then, and a single, salty droplet rolled slowly from the corner of her eye and along the curve of her cheek…

“You cried yourself to sleep every night,” Castien whispered, remembering, as he caught the teardrop on the tip of a finger before it reached her jaw.

…Silva swallowed and nodded almost as imperceptibly as Castien had. “Until that fourth night,” she recalled, “when you climbed into my bunk and held me close. You just whispered, ‘Shhh. You’ll be alright. You’re safe.’ over and over again; stroking my hair and letting me cry into your shoulder until I fell asleep. I think it was that night that I first felt cared for, let alone wanted or even loved.” Her fingertips fell away from his lips, then, tapped at the point of his chin and slid, tenderly back up the line of his jaw. “It might have been a sister that physically brought me to Astryliene, Castien,” she whispered, “but it was you…your heart… that brought mine to Her.

Before your trials begin,” she continued, almost absently toying with a finely plaited braid that fell from behind his ear, “I wanted to be certain that you knew that I love you.” Her own smile wavered as his broadened and, for some reason, she snickered again. “I love you for bringing me to Her. I love you for being the first person to ever show me, for certain, that I could be loved. Most importantly, though, I want you to know that I love you…” She could veritably feel the flush on her face, now, and, for some reason, she imagined herself as a clown with red painted cheeks in one of the travelling caravans that sometimes came through town. Her eyes couldn’t help but dip from his, then, and, as she stared vacantly at the razor honed blade laying over his knees, another little giggle chuffed past her lips.

 “Your trials are close, Cas,” she said, slowly finding the courage to lift her face to his again, “and, before they began, I wanted to be sure that you knew…” Her dainty fingertips lifted to his lips, once more, lingered there for a blissful instant and, then, drifted back down to his chin and along his jawline until they found themselves working into the spill of raven tresses behind his ear and at the base of his skull… “I wanted to show you that I love you. And I want you to promise me that you’ll come back…”

At first, Castien’s eyes went wide when she pulled him close and pressed her lips to his. The longer she held him there, though, the heavier his lids seemed to grow and it took him only an instant to not only submit but, also, commit to the kiss. His meditations forgotten, he turned as his arms moved to wrap around the half-elven girl with whom he’d spent much of the last ten years and his mother’s blade rolled from his knees and onto the sand as the long withheld passion between them, at last, kindled to a flame. After a long moment, their lips, at least, separated and both of them, with expressions on their features that struck an even balance between awkwardness and bliss, smiled sheepishly into the other’s eyes.

“Amin yithel mela lle,” Castien said, still somewhat breathless from the kiss, “And, yes, melamin, I promise you I shall return.”

In that instant, it was difficult for him to tell if she was going to laugh or cry and, before he could even gauge the likelihood of one or the other, she pulled him even closer and her face disappeared from his sight. “Stay with me tonight,” her voice purred in his ear. It was both a question and a demand, all at once, “My chambers or yours, it matters not to me... Just stay…”

“I… I’m supposed to report to the training grounds after dinner,” he stammered in response, sincerely caught off guard but certainly not disappointed as to the way the long withheld feelings between he and Silva were being requited , “but…but, yes, melui… My chambers, tonight. If my trials are as near as you suspect, you may as well bring your things, as well, hmmm?”

Still nestled in his neck, she wrested her hand from beneath where his had it held to his chest and swatted playfully at him. “Are you asking me to move in, Cas?”

“Would you rather continue sharing quarters with Sugoi, Nyna, and Wirkass?”

“No,” she cooed, unburying her face from the sleekly muscled nook where his neck met his shoulder and, unabashedly, now, laying her head against his chest, “not if it means I get you to myself… even for a few hours.”

The Temple of Astryliene, Watertown – Castien’s chambers; 6:00 a.m.

The nearly inaudible hiss of the parchment sliding under his door woke him before the raucous squawking of the gulls scavenging their breakfast on the beach. At the first whispered scrape, the elf had rolled out of his bed and snatched his scimitar from it’s scabbard before he’d so much as thought of clothing or armor. Blade at the ready and postured for impending battle, Castien’s eyes skim the dim of his room for signs of an intruder. When they register only the folded piece of paper coming to light on the planks of his floor, he risks a glance over his shoulder and it’s only then, when he sees Silva, still curled beneath his blankets, sleeping soundly, that he relaxes to any degree. The spring-like tension in his sword-arm uncoils a bit, and his combat-ready crouch loosens as his gaze embarks on another sweep of the faintly dawn-lit chambers. After another instant, the spellworks running through his mind dissipated and he let go of the deep breath that he’d trapped in his lungs. His sword arm relaxed and the tip of the blade pointed at the floor, now, as Castien’s eyes reclaimed sight of the parchment laying just inside his door. His head canted to one side, regarding the thing curiously as he took his first steps across the floor toward it. As he got closer, he thought, he recognized the blend of paper and wax and, as he crouched to scoop the thing up, noticing the details of the seal, he was sure of it… A letter from Lys…

A smile played on his lips, then, and all sense of battle-readiness drained from him. He padded back across the floor, casually thrust his blade back into it’s sheathe, and situated himself on the edge of his bed to read the missive his dear friend had seen fit to slip under his door. Elbows resting on his knees and the letter pinched between thumb and forefinger of each hand, Castien used a singled thumb to crack the signet-pressed wax enough to unfold the letter and, after orienting it so that it was right side up, began to read:

My dear friend,

Watching you grow into the fine man you have become has been truly a pleasure, and our many conversations have served as a point of light in dark times. When you were but a lad, I could see in you such promise. How quickly you took to Her teachings. How devotedly you swore yourself to Her service. Astryliene herself would be proud to see how you have excelled in your training, for her hand has touched your liife deeply, and your path, while yet unclear, leads to greatness. Had I a brother, I imagine he would be like you. 

I understand Umanu has selected you to trial for Astryliene's Blade. Castien, I could not support this decision more, for it seems a natural extension of not only your personality, but your heart, as well. I can see no other place in the Temple where you would be happier. To become part of the Blade will provide you with the challenges and opportunities to keep not only your skills shrp, but our mind as well, and show you the love Astrryliene has for all peoples across this continent, and indeed the world. Oh, I do so envy you a bit - to travel so far! This world is so vast, and so strange, and it is my hope you see it all. 

But now, to the heart of my letter.

For years, I have alternately puzzled over and tried to push from my mind the events that led to Lya's death, and what part the town of Ghostwood plays in it. When I think on it, my thoughts lead also to the emissaries we once sent that way who disappeared and were never seen again. And while they retain two Sisters currently, there are strange rumors of things...  My heart is uneasy more and more, and without the comfort of my sisters, I am unable to put it to ease. I hope you can help me, and by extension, help Lya, whom I fear can not rest until the events of her violent death are settled one way or another. 

To this end, Umanu has granted me permission to set forth your Trials, and if you agree, I set this before you. Seek out the town of Ghostwood, and uncover its connection to my sister. If you also glean insight into the disappearance of the intial emissaries we sent, that would please Umanu and Ulale. And if you were to verify the rumors or discount them, concerning the savage animal attacks nearby, well, that would be rather nice also. These are your Trials, as mostly approved by Grand High Father Umanu as part of your admittance to Astryliene's Blade. 

If you will take up this quest, I ask you to speak with Girta'a at Halfred's Bake Shoppe in the Market District. She is a lovely young woman of half-orc descent in whom I have entrusted the gathering of our band of heroes. 

Yours fondly, 

Lys

At first, Castien smiled – he was more than honored by Lys’ request and confidence in him to have even sent him this letter – then, as that smile widened, it grew so large that it could help but result in a soft chuckle as his eyes turned to where Silva’s lavender hair spilled across his pillows. “How is it that you always know these things, melui,” he scarcely whispered into the early morning air that spilled through his window, “how is it that you’ve always known?”

Silva stirs only when Castien reaches out to stroke her hair and she smiles contentedly when her eyes flutter open to realize that she is still in his bed. She sighs happily once before realizing that Cas is already awake and leaning over her, smiling softly as he lovingly toys with the strands of her hair. “Is it morning,” she asks, realizing that she truly doesn’t care about the answer as her eyes flutter closed, again.

“It is,” Cas whispers in reply, “Early, yet, but morning, nonetheless.”

“Will you come back to bed?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” the elven warrior’s tone become mildly apologetic and Silva’s ears pick up on the faint crackle of parchment rustling between fingers, “Your prophecies are eerily accurate, as always.”

As much as she tries to mask it, there is a sprinkling of dejectedness in the sigh that whispers past Silva’s lips, then. Her eyes come hatefully open, but soften as she rolls over on the mattress to face him, clutching the covers to her bare chest against the cool morning breeze blowing through the window. “Your trials,” she queried almost as if she already knew, her eyes flitting from the letter in his hand to his face in the time it took to prop herself up on an elbow.

Castien nodded somberly as he turned to face her more fully and offered over the parchment from which he’d just read. She rubbed her eyes, first, but, then, stretched out a graceful hand to accept the paper from his and, having done so, read it in silence. When she was finished, she folded the letter and offered it back. “It’s from Lys,” she smiled softly, sadly, “you can’t say no… you won’t say no.”

“I can’t,” Castien smiled in return, somewhat apologetically despite the fact that it was unnecessary, “I won’t.

Lys is my mother as much as Ulale,” he whispered, setting the letter aside on the mattress and reaching out a hand to stroke her cheek, “perhaps even closer…”

“I know,” Silva smiled, lifting her hand to his face in reciprocation, “I’ve always known… which is why we are here, melamin. You will come back?”

“I’ve already promised you this, yes?”

“Promise me, again, Cas,” she requested, lifting from the mattress to bring her lips to his.

“I will come back, Silva Talelkiir,” he smiled against her lips as the kiss was ruefully broken, “Help me with my armor? I’d like to see Lys and the Grand High Father before I take to the city.”

"Of course."

Aboard the Sun Dog, roughly 3:15 P.M.

In the past couple of hours Fin Crowe had made his rounds of the Sun Dog, from bilge to belaying pins, tending to the various duties of his station. First, he had found Daxon Blackheart, the man whom Sharky had brought aboard as a potential addition to the gunnery crew. While the man couldn’t be classified precisely as able-bodied given the stab wound in his leg, he’d seemed ready and willing enough to suit the purpose and, just as importantly, Fin had learned, that Daxon had been on Tortuga for enough time as to have provided some bit of insight into the powers and players on the little island. The information Daxon had provided chased through the quartermaster’s mind even after he’d left the new gunner to rest up and await Hughes’ return and, as he’d prowled the Dog’s decks, Fin couldn’t help but to allow the implications of what he’d learned to pepper into every inventory and investment… Whose purses would they fill in stocking the Sun Dog’s larder? Whose for powder, sail, and timber? Was the balance of power on Tortuga so far tipped to one side that they may have already run afoul of the larger and, perhaps more importantly, if they had, would the Dog and her crew jumping on the other side of the scale manage to bring any sort of equilibrium?... It was thoughts like these that followed Crowe back through the hatch and onto the mid-deck as he climbed from the hold and back into the late afternoon sun.

He stood just outside the hatch for a moment and ran a hand through his hair as he gazed, narrow-eyed, upon the town across the bay and, as he considered what he’d learned, he blew the weight of them into the air in the form of an ambiguous sigh…

“Either that, Mr. Crowe, or you’ll not find this port so friendly as you have.”

…Oken’s parting words swirled amidst the information and questions playing in his brain and, as his hand fell from his hair and came to rest on the hilt of his blade, Fin gave a slow shake of his head and smirked at the town. “Aye,” he grumbled under his breath, tearing his eyes from the sprawl of the town and suspiciously eyeing the fort that topped it all, “we’ll see, won’t we? Sooner rather’n later, I reckon.”

He heaved another sigh into the air and forced his eyes from the Tortuga Bay Settlement, rasping something about a “f#@kin’ pansy peacock” under his breath and, with more of a glare than a glance, dismissed the view of the town as he strode, now, for the forecastle. The day’s events (and the warmth of the rum in his belly) had almost given physical weight to the thoughts churning in his head, now, and he found the idea of a piece of quiet and a sprawl on his bunk to be an acceptable remedy for such a thing.

Moments later, he was in his cabin, shrugging out of his blood-spattered shirt and seated on the edge of his bed. After tossing the tunic aside, his hands found his tobacco pouch and his fingers fidgeted with the making of another cigarillo as his mind did the same with all he’d learned today. After striking a spark to the cigarillo, he worked his way across the mattress and pressed his back to the inner wall of the cabin, letting the tension ease from his shoulders as the first draw of sweetened smoke mulled the myriad thoughts in his mind. “Somethin’ ta save fer th’ council, later,” he muttered to himself, watching in an almost zen-like manner as the smoke writhed and curled it’s way toward one of the open portholes on the far wall. He had debated, of course, taking what he’d learned to the Captain before council was called but, given that the Dog had only been ported in Tortuga Bay for less than a day and the fact that Anna, likely, had other concerns weighing on her at present, Fin decided that it could wait. She’d want the others to weigh in with their thought, anyway, and, to his way of thinking, there was no sense in having the same conversation twice. So it was that Fin Crowe convinced himself to simply sit and smoke, letting the cares of the day seep from mind and body alike as he soaked in a few moments of solitude.

As it happens aboard a ship, though, those moments of blessed silence were cracked by the sound of a door, just beyond that of his cabin, banging shut and, thereafter, the echo of boot heels falling purposefully on the deck-boards of the corridor. His eyes turn towards his own door then and, as he slides toward the edge of his bunk, his ears pick up on a muffled bit of chatter between voices he recognizes as Maggie’s and Cracker’s…

When’d Mags get back, he wonders, lifting himself off of the thin mattress and making for the door to his cabin, Must’ve been when I was below, else I’d’ve seen ‘er. An’ what’s Cracker soundin’ so bunched up about?

Drawing lazily on his smoke, Fin follows the voices out onto the main deck but, by the time he’s thumbed the latch and stepped out into the Caribbean air, again, all he is able to catch is the sight of Cracker and Maggie trudging across the deck towards the hatch leading to Anna’s quarters. They’re through that farther door before the Quartermaster can so much as guess at what they’d been talking about. Doesn’ look at all good, Fin muses, noting the way Maggie’s steps fall as he presses his back against the bulkhead and takes another drag of his cigarillo. Her or Anna want me t’ know, one of ‘em’ll tell me soon enough.

((OOC: Fin will watch until Cracker and Maggie disappear into Anne’s domain, at which point he’ll likely return to his own cabin and continue his pondering and relaxing… Plenty of room between this and the start of the “Captain’s Council” for any interruptions. If he’s not in his cabin, he’ll be somewhere aboard ship tending to his duties (i.e. seeing to the stores if Simple Jack returns with supplies, etc)))

Aboard the Sun Dog – Captain’s Council, 7:30 P.M.

Dusk had begun to gather over Tortuga Bay and, as it did, so, too, did the officers of the Sun Dog gather about a small table on the ship’s deck to share information and advise Captain Cole on what they’d each learned of the port in which they were anchored. Still shirtless, as he had spent some time scrubbing the Kidane’s blood from his tunic and had left it to dry in his cabin, Fin Crowe occupied his usual position to the Captain’s left. He sits in brooding silence, a mug of ale cupped between his hands, as Anne speaks her piece…

“In summary,” Anne says, turning her own cup between her hands, “we’ve still no’ been visited by the port authority, so this is likely one o’ them ports tha’ require me t’ go ashore which I’ll do t’morrow. We’ve precious li’l on the powers here’bouts but ‘ave already sold t’ one—Mr. Virgil Grover—whilst Mr. Crowe’s received an offer o’ bounty from an agent o’ the other—Mr. Davenport—or so we assume…”

This prompts a short nod from the quartermaster and his dark eyes lift from their contemplation of the ale in his mug. “More’n assumption at this point, luv,” he rumbles. He doesn’t elaborate immediately, though; instead, he lifts his mug and takes a drink, allowing the Captain to continue.

“…an’ we likely ‘ave an issue brewin’ with the authorities ‘ere that’ll need addressin’.” Anastasia’s green eyes flit briefly to where Maggie sits and her mug stalls its rotations…

Crowe returns his mug to the table, here, and his eyes, too, flick across the table to where Maggie sits. He says nothing but offers the tempestuous woman a wry smile and a quick wink.

“This be where ideas be brought t’ the table,” Anna rolls on, “How’re we t’ no’ get dashed on the political rocks o’ Tortuga whilst buildin’ a network o’ folks willin’ t’ give us line when probable hauls be runnin’ these waters? The crew be happy fer the time bein’ so long as their purses are full. This… well, we all know this is no’ long asail an’ other captains’ll be poachin’ our crew once they learn there be a female captain o’ this boat. So, spill yer guts.”

“If this is like most ports,”Goncalvo offers, “the local constabulary will have hot heads but short memories.  There is always something going on and today’s news is forgotten as quickly as it spreads.  This is likely not the first or last time an officer of the port will have met an untimely end.  Time and distance often aids one in forgetting old, distant problems when new ones close at hand pop into play.  Perhaps now would be a good time to set sail for the Indies and search for a fat merchant ship to plunder.  The only thing guaranteed to make near any harbormaster forget past transgressions is a fat purse of gold.”

The Sailmaster’s words evoke another clipped nod and a grunt of what might be interpreted as concurrence from Fin. Still, the quartermaster holds his tongue, preferring to hear what Cracker has to say before he speaks, himself.

As expected, the Bosun relates the details of his various excursions into town. Much of what Cracker says props up Fin’s own, as yet, unspoken assessment of the place – lots of tight lips and a semblance of fearful secret keeping pervade Tortuga Bay. The mention of Gory Tremane piques Crowe’s interest and, from behind a fresh tipping of his mug, he first arches a brow, then, seems to slip into a deeper contemplation, trying to piece this name in with the others he’s learned today.

“I don’t think Crowe here’d be upset about crewmen givin’ out his name to prospective recruits,” Cracker suggests, earning a shake of Fin’s head in agreement, “That makes me think he might be more.”  The bosun shrugs; “But honestly, I don’t have much to go on beyond the name of a person and a ship.” He leans back in his chair a bit, then, indicating that he’s had his say and, for the time, can offer nothing more.

Fin floats in his quiet consideration for a moment longer, his eyes skimming the faces at the table as his thoughts shuffle and sort themselves in his mind. He indulges in another sip of ale before his gaze meets Anne’s and it is then that he sets the mug aside and laces his fingers together on the table before him. “From th’ minute me an’ Cracker set foot t’ th’ docks,” he says in the wake of a heavy puff of air that escapes his lips, “I figgered there were somethin’ off-kilter ‘bout this place. Took me a bit of lookin’, listenin’, an’ thinkin’ to piece t’gether exactly wha’ tha’ might be but, giv’n wha’ I’ve heard from th’ lot o’ ye an’ some others, here an’ ashore, I c’n say wit’ more’n some certainty, it’s fear. Th’ balance o’ power’s been tipped, hereabouts, an’ th’ folk o’ this town be terrified o’ th’ way she’s leanin’.”

Fin’s gaze ticks to Sharktooth; “Yer new mate, Daxon, filled me in on some scuttlebutt tha’ helped put th’ pieces t’gether fer me.” His attentions shift back to Anne, then, and he continues. “Yer man Grover,” he offers, “he’s a local lad made good, as I hear told, an’ fer a time, held a good deal o’ sway in Tortuga but th’ folk here’re figgerin’ he’s on his last leg. This Davenport fella; he’s an aristocrat come over from England an’s ruthless enough as to have all but taken th’ place over, stealin’ power from th’ likes o’ Grover an’ pilin’ it all on his side o’ the scale, savvy? Th’ peacock wha’ offered me th’ bounty job, t’day, he’s rumored t’ be th’ bloke wha’ handles Davenport’s less savory op’rations. Havin’ seen myself th’ way folk react t’ th’ man an’ knowin’ th’ sort o’ blokes he’s prone ta hirin’ on, I’m figgerin’ tha’ Davenport’s th’ iron-fisted type tha’ people’re wont t’ avoid crossin’ fer fear o’ their lives.”

“As t’ th’ politics o’ it,” Crowe leans back in his chair and lifts his hands to push back his hair as he heaves a sigh, “We climb aboard wit Grover an’ we’re on the wrong side o’ power in this town but there’s th’ chance we c’n help shift some of it back… mebbe even take some of it fer ourselves… O’ course, tha’ll be much akin ta cuttin’ yer wrist an’ swimmin’ wit’ sharks.

On t’other hand,” Fin continues, “we get in bed wit’ Davenport an’ we are th’ sharks, aye? No’ th’ sort o’ shark I’d care ta be, mind ye. I’m more’n a wee bit familiar wit’ th’ sort wha’ run fer th’ man an’, truth o’ it is, I’d jus’ as soon kill th’ lot o’ ‘em as give ‘em a sideways eye. We’d be well off, fer sure, so long’s we kowtowed ta ever’thin’ th’ man said but, th’ second we aired so much’s a question, he’d likely have us killed.

As ta Maggie’s predicament,” he says, storm colored eyes fixing on the First Mate, “I ain’t certain she’s got much ta worry on. If this town’s deep in Davenport’s purse as I been led ta believe, he won’ find it hard ta replace some dandy politician an’ a f*#kin’ guardsman; it’ll be li’l more’n a tick in his ledgers, I reckon. Bloody hell, I killed one o’ Oken’s lads t’day, meself, an’ th’ bugger din’t so much’s blink… jus’ offered me a job an’ tossed wha’ he figgered might be some threatin’ words inta th’ wind.

Anyway,” Crowe says, reaching for his mug, again, “we stay here long, Capt’n, an’ we’re like to kick th’ hornets’ nest. Tha’ much be certain. How we handle th’ hornets once they be angry an’ swarmin’, tha’s another matter all t’gether.” He tips the mug to his lips and offers up an ambiguous raising of his brows to indicate he’s finished for the moment, then, reclines in his chair allowing the others to mull over what he’s brought to the table.

Had more to post than I had originally thought! First chunk is posted and takes Fin up to/through finding Blackheart and having a little chit-chat (some liberties taken but only to a certain point)... I'll post more a bit later re: hearing Maggie being fetched and the meeting.

Tuesday, June 3rd, 1670 a.d., Tortuga Bay Settlement (Ile de la Tortue), roughly 1:25 P.M.; The Sun Dog

“If we’re t’ make Tortuga our port,” Crowe grins, parroting the words Anne had spoken just moments ago, “it mightn’t hurt ta take a wee swim wit’ one o’ th’ bigger sharks in ‘er waters, savvy?”

 “Aye, but I don’ like gettin’ in bed with strangers,” Anne chews on her tongue and narrows her flashing eyes. After a moment, she allows a minute shake of her head and continues. “An’ there’s no profit in honest work. We need t’ find a mark worthy o’ this crew’s time, Fin. ‘Fore we no longer ‘ave a crew. An’ as you say, a hun’red guinea be a hun’red guinea. Tha’s a li’l o’er five an’ a half gold per man,” she turns a sly eye towards her quartermaster and unceremoniously takes the bottle from his hand, “which won’ las’ a man but one, maybe two days, ashore.”

 “True enough,” the quartermaster rumbles, not bothering to mention, again, that Oken’s bounty hunt might lead to better jobs

Drawing hard on the rum, Anne uses the back of her sleeve to once again wipe her mouth as she delivers the bottle back into Fin’s hand. “Still a lot o’ daylight left. Others’ll return t’ the Dog later this eve an’ we’ll know more then.”

Reclaiming the bottle, Fin replies with another curt nod

“Meanwhile,” leaning her left elbow against the gunwale, the beautiful woman faces the rugged sailor at her side. “I hear tell tha’ Shark Tooth brought a new recruit aboard my ship. You’ll go find ‘im an’ make sure he’ll do?”

 “Ye’ll get no argument from me, luv,” Crowe nods in response to Anne’s last words on the matter, “I’ll see it happens as ye like it.” 

Pushing away from the railing, now, and peering back in the direction of the town, the Sun Dog’s quartermaster asks; “Now, what about yer sister, then? Would ye be wantin’ me ta go find her er would ye rather jus’ wait her out?”

 “Maggie?” Anastasia’s face softens. “Tha’ li’l bird needs t’ learn t’ fly on ‘er own sooner er later. We’ll see what she brings us this time. Yer free t’ go ‘bout yer duties, Mr. Crowe.”

“Aye,” he answers, pushing away from the railing, now, “as ye say, Capt’n.”

 As Anne’s eyes turn shoreward, again, Fin ambles away in search of the new body that Sharktooth has brought aboard to fill out his gunners. The sailors on deck, now, all wear faces that he knows well enough and, when he’s not immediately able to lay eyes on one that’s unfamiliar, he scowls a bit and lets his gaze sweep slowly from prow to stern in search of the phantom gunner…

“Lose somethin’, Mistah Crowe?”

…Fin smirks at the sound of Chimwewe’s voice and turns his eyes in the direction of the scarified African. “No’ me, Chim,” he answers as he takes a few steps to close the distance between himself and the black man, “but I reckon someone has. Hear tell Sharky’s brought us a body ta put t’ th’ guns. Know where he’s ta be found?”

Chimwewe’s features twist to mirror Fin’s and his eyes, too, sweep the decks in search of the man of whom the Quartermaster spoke. “We left ‘im propped agin the mast, there,” Chim answers, “de man had a sizeable hole in his leg when Mistah Stryker brung him on. He was ta be waitin’ fer th’ doctor…”

“Hughes go ashore, did he?”

“Aye, sir,” Chim nods, “Can’t say if he’s returned, yet, though. If he has, I figure, you’ll find your man in his company, gettin’ that wound tended proper.”

Crowe nods faintly at Chim’s guess and flicks a glance at the hatch that leads below; “Makes sense. Ye been ashore as yet?”

“No, sir,” the intense African returns, “still waitin’ m’ turn, mendin’ ropes while I does.”

Fin’s lips stretch into something that’s not quite a smile. “Vera well,” he says, tipping the rum bottle to his lips once more before offering the thing over to Chimwewe, “why’n’t ye split tha’ wit yer mates whilst ye wait fer th’ next launch, then? Get ashore an’ have yerself a bit o’ fun ‘fore th’ night runs off, aye?”

“Ayyyyeee,” Chim grins, accepting the bottle without question, “Thank’ee, Mistah Crowe.”

“Mhm,” is the quartermaster’s low reply before turning on his heel and striding for the hatch.

Approximately 1:35 P.M.; The Sun Dog – below decks

It had taken a few minutes of scouring the maze of hammocks in the Dog’s crew quarters before Fin, at last, locates the unfamiliar face he’d been searching for. The man was stretched out, asleep, in one of the lower berths in the aft quarters, his soft snoring interrupted now and again by a pained moan as he shifted in his slumber. For a long moment, Fin simply eyes the napping figure, taking note of the battered and bruised appearance and the crudely tended wound in his leg from which blood still slowly trickled. Then, his initial inspection complete, the quartermaster lifts a booted foot and crudely nudges the dozing man into wakefulness.

The would be gunner’s eyes shoot open in a panic of confusion and, out of instinct, it seems, one hand reaches for a dagger tucked into the belt at his waist as a curse falls, unformed, from his lips. “What in bla… who?.. I’ll…”

“Ye’ll end up wit’ a hole in more’n yer leg, ye don’ get yer hand off that pig-sticker, boy-o,” Crowe warns, “Roust up!”

The man’s face contorts in an almost comical jig of battling emotions – anger, discomfort, confusion, fear – before wakefulness fully dawns on him. When it does, his visage settles into a mask of realization and, perhaps, a bit of annoyance. “Who in the bloody hell’re you,” he grouses out the question, wincing at the pain in his leg as he rolls his body into a seated position and eyes the admittedly imposing man looming over him.

“Ye c’n call me Crowe,” comes the gruff reply, “If I decide yer fit enough ta stay aboard th’ Sun Dog, I’ll be yer quartermaster.”

“Oh…” The irritation quickly drains from the would-be-gunner’s features, then, and, while he doesn’t vocalize an apology, Fin sees it well enough in the man’s eyes.

“Aye,” the quartermaster responds, “an’ if yer done askin’ me questions, I’ve a couple o’ my own; th’ first bein’ who in th’ bloody hell’re you?”

“Name’s Daxon, sir,” the man blinks, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, “Daxon Blackheart.”

Fin smirks faintly at the moniker, reasonably certain Blackheart isn’t a family name. From where his arms are folded across his chest, then, he lifts a hand to his face and rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “An’ yer lookin’ ta man our guns,” the next query rumbles past Fin’s lips, “are ye, Mester Blackheart?”

“Aye, sir,” Daxon nods, “Sharktooth said you’d lost some crew and were lookin’ to take on a few mo..”

“An’ yer figurin’ ye’d make a good choice wit’ that hole in yer leg, then,” Crowe interrupts.

“No,” Blackheart blinks rapidly and shakes his head as if to clear away lingering cobwebs of drowsiness, “I mean yes. Yessir… Never been stabbed in th’ leg, before, to be honest and it hurts like the devil, but…” The man’s brow knits in such a way, then, that it seems the realization he’s being tested has just struck him like a rogue wave and, at that point, any hint of uncertainty that may have lingered disappears from his face and he meets the quartermaster’s gaze as even as he can; “I’m as good a gunner’s mate as you’ll find in this port, Mr Crowe, and, once your surgeon returns from wherever he’s run off to, I’m sure this knick in my leg’ll be dealt with so’s not to be a concern. If you need me on the cannons before that, then I’ll bloody well hop, sir.”

A grin ghosts across Crowe’s lips at that and, as he seats himself on the hammock across from Daxon, he even allows a chuckle to escape; “Tha’s th’ answer I was lookin’ fer, mate.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Fin eyes the man, assessing him once more now that he seems to have his wits about him. “If Sharky saw fit ta bring back ta th’ ship,” Fin says after a moment, “I reckon there’s no need ta ask if ye know yer guns…” Surely Sharktooth wouldn’t have hired on a gunner without being assured of some sort of proficiency.

“No, sir,” Daxon replies, “I mean you can, if you please, but Sharktooth’s already done so and…”

Fin curtly waves the response away and nods; “Aye. I figured’s much. Answer me this, though, Mr Blackheart; how long ye been ashore at Tortuga an’ whaddya know about a couple o’ blokes by th’ names o’ Davenport an’ Grover?”

((OOC: I’ll stop there with this conversation, for now… Don’t want to assume/presume anything that the GM might have where this is concerned. Fin will also ask about Oken (if there’s anything from Daxon that warrants continuing that particular line of questioning) and/or fish out whatever else the new gunner knows about the workings of power on Tortuga. Once the questioning is finished, Fin will welcome Dax to the crew and promise to send Hughes to tend his leg as soon as the surgeon returns.))

Really nice intro, Lady D!

Chess - neat character!

I've got a post in mind for Cas. I'll get to work on that as soon as I catch up with a few other things. Looking forward to getting this one going!

Busy weekend and busier first part of the work week but I should have something ready soon.

Loved that intro post! Got some thoughts churning! 

Lots of that "do this yearly" business going on for me at work, this week... resume updates, employee evaluations, training, blahblahblah... (plus the wife has been on Spring break from school)... I'm not fussing about a tiny delay.

That said, Roger, if there's anything I can do to help (NPC the doc for you in this case or whatever), just let me know.

“Ok, Fry…”

“Haze,” the kid absently corrects Castle between wiping a smear of ranch and ketchup from his mouth and reaching for his burger, again.

“…The man of the cloth, here, already said that this was beyond anything he's dealt with.  I'd have to say the same.  Running makes some sense to me, but mostly because I don't know much.  But you seem to know something about this . . . juju. Convince me.  Why do I need to run?” 

The kid stops, mid-chew, and seems to realize that he’d said things out loud that he’d only meant to stash in the confines of his own head. His expression doing a weird little dance between embarrassment and reluctance as his eyes jump, once more, between the faces of the older men around the table. When his gaze hits Castle, though, and his ears pick up on that last question, Haze’s countenance reflects disbelief more than anything else. “Why,” the kid asks almost incredulously, swallowing the half-chewed mouthful, secretly hoping it’ll choke down with the memories welling up in his gourd and gut, “WHY?!?” He unceremoniously drops the burger back onto his plate and sighs heavily; “What part of it’s gonna f#@^in’ kill you isn’t getting’ into yer dome, dude?!?

You guys’re sittin’ around, here, talkin’ ‘bout chasin’ down demons an’ whatever hoochie-coochie crap like yer goin’ out and tryin’ to scare up some poozle on a Saturday night! An’ I’m over here all like ‘Whoa, Castle-dude! Bad idea, bro!’ cuz I’ve seen what s#!t like this Mr White an’ that friggin’ Mr Creepy you were jawin’ with in the alley can do. It ain’t pretty, man… It’s scary! An’ I don’t mean horror movie scary, dude! I’m talkin’ full-on, pi$$-yer-pants, cry-like-a-girl, run-away-screamin’-cuz-that’s-all-yer-melon-can-think scary. Then you’re all over there goin’ ‘well, convince me,’ an’ I keep tellin’ ya…”

Haze’s stomach churns in the tempest of his rant and his memories and, in that instant, he realizes both that he’s on the verge of literally screaming at these old dudes and, too, that tears have started to well in his eyes and have begun a slow trickle down his cheeks. Angrily, he wipes the tears from his face with the sleeves of his hoody and, then, throws his hands in the air in exasperation… He really didn’t want to tell this story for fear of reliving it but… “Ya think I’m out here on the streets cuz I like it, dude? Ya think I’m hidin’ in friggin’ dumpsters an’ sleepin’ under bridges cuz I want to? Somethin’… somethin’ unnatural… like not of this world unnatural… Like yer friggin Man in White an’ Mr Red Eyes… ate my mom and dad…”

...I'd imagine that Astryliene's domains are somewhere in the Knowledge, Light, and Life arena... possibly War, as well, but only insofar as it applies to justice.

As I said, though... Just a guess based on what I've learned of the Sisterhood... Compassion and defense of the downtrodden are major tenets of the "faith", I believe.

Edit: I can also see her falling into the Tempest domain, as well... Followers are encouraged to "follow their own paths" and "experiment" in order to find/define those paths... lightning and clouds are prevalent in her heraldry... *nods*

So "today" turned in to today but I did manage to get something of a post up for Haze. 

When Haze and Castle reach the Owl’s second floor, the older man leads the way toward a table where a priest and the big biker-dude are conversing. Upon their approach, the priest’s eyes lift and frame Castle. “What can I do for you,” he asks.

“Why don’t you go get some of that food,” Castle suggests, nodding towards the remains of the buffet and ignoring the pastor for a moment, “then come back.”

Haze’s gaze flits somewhat warily from face to face, then to the envelope, then back to the faces, again, before he nods and, wordlessly, breaks away from the group and meanders over to load up a fresh plate while the “grown-ups” continue their talking. You dudes’re sittin’ there talkin’ like this is some Sunday afternoon football or somethin’, the kid thinks, trying really hard not to say the words aloud as he drops a lukewarm burger on his plate and proceeds to douse it with condiments, It ain’t! He risks a glance over his shoulder at the three men as he scoops a helping of wings from their congealing sauce and deposits them alongside the burger. You dudes had any idea what ya might really be lookin’ at and ya’d bolt, man… he licks some wing sauce from his fingers as his attentions return to the food laid out before him and, as he helps himself to what’s left of the fries, gives another slow shake of his head… which is pro’ly what I should be doin’ ‘stead o’ feedin’ my face, again. Get on my board an’ kick it back for Toronto… He squirts a pool each of ketchup and ranch dressing onto his plate, then, burying a good portion of the fries in the stuff, and, stuffing a few fries into his mouth, shrugs his narrow shoulders as a contemplative look passes across his features… “Mebbe headin’ more eastward’d be a good idea,” he says out loud, then, though more to himself than with the intent of anyone else hearing it, “friggin’ boogens showin’ up ‘round here ain’t no good sign…”

The rest of the thought is stifled as Haze lifts the burger to his mouth and heads back to where Castle, the biker, and the pastor are hovering over the contents of the envelope, bouncing words off of each other like this kind of stuff was normal, day-to-day for them. The kid doesn’t say much when he reaches the table; he simply offers a nod and a muffled “Sup, dudes,” through a mouthful of half-chewed burger before plopping himself down in a chair near Castle.

"What do you folks think we should do,” the pastor asks, taking his hat off and placing it in his lap, “Man in White is the issue but how are we gonna find him?  And also I've never dealt with anything on this level before."

“Ya should friggin’ leave it alone, bro,” Haze says without really thinking, “Like I told Castle-dude; ya don’t wanna go messin’ with no hinky juju like this Man In White…” He stuffs another pinch of ketchup and ranch soaked fries past his lips, chews, swallows, and shrugs; “Good way ta end up all corpsified and gross, dudes! Truuuust me.”

Hoping to have a post for Haze today... work took a major jump up, yesterday, so I wasn't able to get around to it, then.

If I remember correctly, Lady Dark was looking at starting us up around the first of April.

As for the thread fizzling out a bit, recently - I've been a bit busy with work and the wife is off enjoying her spring break, this week, so my attentions have been elsewhere the past few days. I do have a few sketches and such in the works (which I'm hoping to get back to and get completed in the next day or so), though. Stay tuned.

I didn't post!!!

Oops... I'll correct that ASAP!

...Where's the flogging??? I was told there would be flogging with the repentance!!!