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Date Posted: 21:05:11 12/13/01 Thu
Author: Dogstar and Leash
Subject: "S' bloody well dead, Jim." ~ Lex

The sheer tortured beauty of the High Voice's words, his expression, his translucent form, floods Leash's heart with the crusader's joy: a twisted combination of artificial hatred, falsely-instilled pride, fanatic glee and simple protective rage. For the first time in weeks, her hand performs what was once an automatic, instinctive action, brushing her hip where her revolver should be. It's not there, of course - stupid, she berates herself: you know no one ever carries a weapon into the house of the Transcendent One!

Bringing her empty hand away from her hip, but swearing that it will be filled before the end of this day, she squares her shoulders and, like everyone else in that towering room, swears in her heart to stand strong.

No matter what.

Now she leans forward in her seat, planting her elbows on the smooth surface of a great, sprawling oval table. "We should strike back immediately," she says eagerly, barely even noticing the face which is expected to absorb her words. "There's no code of honour that can hold us back; these so-called revolutionaries have already committed terrible violence. We can do nothing if not avenge our fellow faithful."

Dogstar listens without a flicker of expression betraying his feelings as various faces scattered throughout the smoky crowd of "revolutionaries" volunteer to go along with the elf's plan. He's not sure what he should do: a rising lump of sick terror is pressing like a sharp stone against his stomach. Being a largely uncomplicated sort of personality, he cannot identify all of its components, but the largest one, the most obvious and the most painful, is one which has been bothering him for weeks enough to become familiar: Leash's face.

Leash was ass enough to fall for Neuracomp's lies, and Dogstar knows her well enough to know that she's also ass enough to stick like a limpet to whatever commitments she's made with that lot of cultists. He couldn't pry her out of it with a crowbar. That means that she is quite inextricably involved, no matter how much he'd like her to be at home, faithfully pursuing her silly religion without waging war over it. This in turn means that she could very easily be killed.

Damn.

The latter thought has been the foundation of most of Dogstar's other thoughts for weeks. He hates having to think it, because of the tight, heavy feeling that it seems to spread throughout his chest every time he does. As a result, Dogstar, no stranger to killing and mental anguish, is feeling distinctly squeamish. Lonely, too: even if she's only there as a vague shape in the background, making disparaging remarks about the bloodstains on the furniture, he misses Leash's presence.

No getting her back . . .

Well, there's one thing he can do, at least.

With a hugely false air of decision, Dogstar drains his drink, sets the empty glass down with a sharp chink, and focuses on the wild-looking elf.

"Count me in."

Ahahahaha. Yeah. I know, that was terrible. ^^;;;; Beg pardon if I've usurped your right to describe the room (if it even is a room?) in which the Church's warriors are meeting, Rayle. Is there a table? Is there not a table? Are they just sitting on the floor gawking at the wall? Does it matter? I haven't the faintest.

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No worries, I had absoposilutely no preconception (If that's not a word it should be) of the room. For all I had in mind, they could just as easily have been in a VR brothel ^^ (NT) -- Rayle, 16:21:27 12/14/01 Fri