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The Regular Board

Welcome! It's Kit again, your local friendly board administrator. If you're here, that means you should have already "passed" the Newbies Board with my approval. If you have no idea what the Newbies Board is, then you're probably not supposed to be here. ^^

All rules still apply. This board is rated PG-13.

And also, to RP on this board effectively, there's some background you need to become familiar with.

Use your noggins, and have fun!

Extra tips: If you want some space between your subject/line name and the post itself, add an <hr> tag. Colors aren't mandatory, but it makes your posts easier to identify. A color table can be found here.

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Is anyone going to be playing Balcs? We need some, if the plot's gonna go anywhere. . . -- Luther Ajani and Hiiz Duirn, 23:33:36 01/26/02 Sat

A Balc comes running up, snapping orders to the others as they stare at their comrade who is now mysteriously encased in ice. A strange sort of weapon, larger and longer than the lasers, is aimed at the block. Fire spits from the flamethrower and begins to melt the ice that the lizard-man is encased in, thawing him out. The rest of the Balcs disperse to join the battle.

Luther is lying among the leaf mold, feeling feverish. He hopes it is not infection; but if there's one thing good about the Balcan weapons, they are very clean and usually don't cause infection. But then it must be illness, and that is hardly better; they can't afford one mage out of the ranks with a cold.

So they have weapons that can breathe fire as the dragons do; this worries him. Not only does that make ice ineffective as a weapon, the dead leaves and the autumn-dry trees around them can easily catch fire. Visions of dancing flames licking up from the forest floor dance before his eyes. He closes them and makes another gesture, turning his palm toward him and rotating two curled index fingers, then stabbing them down into the earth.

Lightning forks down through the cloudless sky, striking the Balc with the flamethrower. He dies almost immediately, the inert flamethrower falling from his claws. Another blast of lightning kills the half-thawed one. Luther murmurs a prayer for their souls, and then for his own. For the Balcs know that there must be someone here to cast these spells, and the rest of them are closing in on him.

Hiiz Duirn, a brown basilisk, watches in shock as their commander is felled by a bolt of lightning from nearly nowhere. Recently transported from Mongra, he has only experienced the fighting tactics of the Ifneans for a bare week and each time they amaze him. There is no word for "magic" in the Balcan tongue; the closest you can get is grzzkt, or "miracle." And so these are miracles that are surrounding him and saving the Ifeans from annhilation.

But with their leader dead, that leaves Hiiz in charge, as the next highest-ranking officer. The rest of the group is standing around, looking uneasily to each other for orders. Thuyduks, Hiiz thinks despairingly. They cannot function with a thuydukran, any of them. But that is why he is a corporal, and they are not.

"Split up!" he hisses in the native tongue. "There must be a miracle-maker here. Find it and kill it."

OOC: A "thuyduk" is the Balcan version of a sheep. A thuydakran, therefore, is a shepherd.

Not all Balcans, by the way, are sheep. Many of them are intelligent and act well on their own. Hiiz just happens to have a very high opinion of himself, and the group he's assigned happens to be a bunch of idiots.

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Replies:
- If you want, I'll play some. Just until the plot gets going. (NT) -- Amber OOC, 09:41:04 02/22/02 Fri
Whee, I get to write Reuven again! ^_^ -- Erin Lusceh, Reuven Tuan, 13:36:20 01/01/02 Tue

Erin Lusceh can be seen in the thick of the battle, hacking and slashing at the Balcs as though she is a mini-tornado. She turns the battlefield almost into a dance of Death, easily beating the Balcs that try to attack her with her own brand of magic, causing the lizards to mutter their version of the word "Demon" every time she appears on the field.

She is immune to the feeling of pain that comes as a well-aimed blast of light sears a cut along her shoulder. Black eyes glinting with the thought of Death, she fights violently, only to disappear and fight somewhere else once her first task is complete.

Dark blood seeps through her tunic as the battle rages, and she closes her eyes for one brief moment before tossing more spells into the fray.

The battle goes poorly, Master. We shall have to intervene more, if your plan is to work. Send word as soon as you are able.

With that thought, she leaps back into the fray, Death receiving more customers from her hands.

Reuven Tuan works diligently in the fields cultivated by the Mongran slaves. His small hands weed and tend the crops meant to feed the Balcan army, always watched by a slave driver stationed not too far away. He takes one moment to touch the grubby bandage around his throat before moving on to the next row of vegetation, a single tear tracing it's way down his dirtied cheek.

The child makes sure not to offend his masters, for he already knows the punishment he'll receive. The knowledge pounds his wish to run away into the ground, his will crushed by the thought of what will happen if he disobeys.

Someone save us.

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Replies:
- A quick but IMPORTANT note. -- Amber OOC, 13:42:55 01/01/02 Tue
Fast forward? -- Luther Ajani, 20:02:51 12/28/01 Fri

Luther flattens his back to a tree, breath rasping harshly in his chest as he claps a hand over his wounded shoulder. Damn but those Balcs had amazing weapons; he would suspect magic if not for the definite lack of magic-scent accompanying each deadly bolt, and his mage-sight is not that dim. But in this one skirmish alone dozens of Ifneans have fallen to the Balcan weapons.

It has been a little over a month since the meeting in Mijel, and the war has started in earnest. A week after evacuations began, the Balcs began coming in droves, and Ifne had had barely enough time to rally itself for war. Just as many women are on the battlefield as men; Ifne has no pretensions about women being inferior, and right now they need as many hands on the battlefield as possible. When lives are at stake, women are just as useful as men. While the Balcs have the advantage of highly superior technology, they are clearly not immune to magic.

But so far, that hasn't been helping us much, Luther thinks dryly as he tears off a strip of his ragged tunic to improvise a bandage. They're gaining ground every day, and they haven't been giving us any time to try and defend ourselves before they strike again, somewhere else. Not only do their guns and vibro-blades cause hideous damage, their ships nullify what the mages had originally thought was the advantage of teleportation. But teleportation tires the wizards, even the mass teleportation of a small company, while the Balcan ships can hold hundreds at a time and move hundreds of miles per hour without tiring any of the soldiers.

He throws himself to the ground, freezing for a moment and hissing through his teeth as the movement jars his wound, fire spreading down his arm and up his neck. When the pain passes, he begins to crawl along on his elbows. From behind him comes the harsh cries of battle and the crackle and hiss of magic. The sound of clashing weapons is curiously absent, and for good reason. Foot soldiers are virtually useless against the Balcs; they can't get close enough for a proper hit before they're pierced through with lasers or their swords are cleaved in half by the more effective vibro-blades the lizard-men use when their guns run out of power. Archers and mages, however, prove themselves quite useful. The swordsmen make themselves useful in other ways: field healers, farriers, runners, suppliers, attendants, or even farmers, for no army can march on an empty stomach.

Shadowy shapes loom through the smoke and dust; tall, eerie reptilian men, moving stealthy and quiet through loam and fallen leaves. Luther's brown clothing blends in well with the ground, and now he extends one hand, fingers spread. Ice crystals form at his fingertips, and suddenly one of the Balcs falls with a shriek as he is encased with ice, freezing quickly to death.

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Warning: Huge Post Ahead -- Draco Cloudcutter and Darkfyre deGarra, 19:54:45 12/28/01 Fri

Where has the confident lady-gryphon gotten to? Draco cranes his neck, with the unfortunate side-effect of bumping his head on the window frame. Muttering under his breath, he backs his head out of the window and sets to looking around. Seeing neither hide or feather of Darkfyre, he trots around the side of the meeting hall--and sees Darkfyre talking to a fountain. Being brought up to be courteous at all times, Draco politely waits for the conversation to end before speaking (his mind does not dwell on the fact that Darkfyre is talking to an inanimate object; he knows that gryphons not from Skirtskynd often have different customs, and maybe talking to water before drinking it is one of them). When he does speak, he has a very thick Skirtskynd brogue, but little of the hissing, trilling gryphon raptoral accent.

"Er, if'n ye kin bide by a wee bit?" he says, uncomfortably. "I'd be wantin' tae gab wi' ye."

"Hm?" Darkfyre pulls up short, having almost trotted clear past the other gryphon in her sudden quest for food. She ruffles her wings for a second with a shimmer of light upon black, seating herself upon the cobblestones with perfect composure. The general regards the male gryphon for a moment, intrigue shining through the thin chinks in her carefully laid military disinterest. She lets her gaze wander for a moment, over the tawny wings and obvious musculature, something like appreciation tugging at her senses before ingrained courtesy brings her eyes back to his. She's quite accustomed to being stopped and questioned by all manner of folk, and thus easily falls back into her clinical, businesslike manner by virtue of training; it is only a small impediment that she's addressing a rather attractive gryphon of the opposite gender. "Not a problem." She stands--out of respect--and nods, once, though lower than she had previously, half-spreading her wings in more traditional greeting. "Darkfyre deGarra, of Nicanor."

Remembering his manners, Draco fans out his wings as well and bows deeply, sinking to his knees in the respectful greeting of male grpyhons to their female counterparts that he has been taught by his elders. "Draco Cloudcutter, mah quine, an' mah hopes that ye'll treat me weel," he intones, then stands again. He takes a moment to appraise Darkfyre, as well; while gryphons do not have the same idea of beauty that humans do (they are, after all, combinations of the toughest predator in the air and one of the toughest hunters on the ground), he is able to recognize Darkfyre as being a fine specimen of gryphon. Dark and sleekly muscled, not brawny like Draco but lean and fit. "Ah'm 'ere tae represent yon gryphon clans in 'e province o' Skirtskynd." Here he displays more discomfiture, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a barely perceptible outwards display of agitation, his tail fidgeting in a manner like a restless cat (for he is, after all, part lion). "Son o' eh clan leader, Laird Alcander Cloudcutter." He shuffles a bit more, then finally abandons formality. "Whit Ah'm tryin' tae say is this: Ah'm a wee babbie at this'n. Could ye help mae?"

Darkfyre is decidedly charmed by Draco's chivalry. She has not seenits like in a long while, not since watching her father address a delegation of gryphons from the far Eastern lands; even then his behaviors were studied purely for ambassadorial means and slightly different from the motions Draco now exhibits. Among the highly integrated types of Nicanor, advanced species-specific formalities are abandoned out of convenience, most often for nothing more than a brief nod and greeting. Darkfyre was not normally concerned with the nuances of cultural formalities- were the domains of the ambassador and lieutenant-general, the public arms of Nicanor. Besides, there had been no time for her to review the protocol with the species she would meet in Mijel, even had she known who would be there. So, as it is, the formality does not trouble Darkfyre's mind. Draco's request, though, takes her aback for a moment.

"Help... you?" She looks puzzled for a moment, tufted tail and ears twitching as her mind to move in circles closer to diplomacy than food. "With war?" She thinks for a moment. The request is strange, to one who has grown up intimately familiar with the subject. It would be akin to asking a bird for help with flying; the action is so learned and ingrained that it is not thought of consciously, but simply done, and bringing the affair systematically into the realms of conscious thought is a troubling and difficult task. But she absently preens at a wing briefly to fix the feathers, raptorally equivalent to a shrug, before looking back up. Anything to maintain and strengthen Ifnean unity- now more than ever. "If you wish." She begins to walk, inclining her head in an indication for Draco to come with her. "How would you wish me to do that?"

Here Draco is lost. He hadn't any plan in mind when he decided to talk to Darkfyre, and he decides to tell her this. "Ah dinnae ken," he admits as he walks with her, careful not to let himself get ahead. "Ah was hoping ye'd ha'e an idea." He lowers his head in a submissive gesture, ears going back but not flattening to the skull, which would be an indication of defiance.

Darkfyre shoots Draco a sidelong glance for a long moment, questioning and studying, finally lowering her head and emitting a series of soft screeches punctuated with hissing growls- the closest gryphon approximation to polite laughter. She abandons proper speech, finally, words coming with the hissing rumble of the raptoral accent if not the birdlike music.

"Right, then. What do you know?"

Draco's head droops a little farther, eartufts going out to the side and his eyelids drooping--the gryphon version of a sheepish expression. "Ah--Ah ken 'ow tae gie orders. Ah kin squar goo, 'n fly, 'n hunt. Boot Ah dinnae knoo anythin' aboot strataegy." After a slight pause, he feels compelled to add, "Boot me da did teach me foo tae play chess."

He can still remember those days, sitting like spinxes in their aerie and playing by magelight. The chess pieces had been barely recognizable, large enough for gryphon talons but clumsily-carved, for even the most dextrous of gryphons simply aren't any good with crafting tools, save those few who are more falcon than eagle or hawk, with slim, tapering foreclaws that work almost as well as human hands. Alcander had told his son that chess was important in learning how to fight. Young Draco had not understood it at the time, though he thinks he does now.

In Skirtskynd, gryphons are brought up to be both gentlebeast and fighter. Draco probably knows more than he thinks, but the problem is that he has had no experience. It is like reading chess from a manual and then playing it for the first time. You cannot expect to win (that does not mean it is impossible, only that it is unlikely, and warfare is all about probability).

"Chess." Darkfyre looks over to Draco, eartufts perking and turning full in his direction, obvious keen interest in her bearing. She can dimly remember learning chess, as a child, along with several others with strange names and abstract, differing rules also inhabited their place in her formative years. There were many opponents she faced in these, family and non. They were not a pastimes but means of learning, of expanding her mind to encompass strategy and probabilities and psychology and options. These games were frequently altered, and in a variation favored by her father hourglasses were used, to limit each player's time to think before moving. Time, after all, is one of the most important dimensions in war. In life. Time is a precious commodity, and when available is only spent on that of value. "You're the firstborn, then?"

"Aye," Draco replies, affirming it with a bobbing of the head, rather like a human nod. He's not sure what his being firstborn has to do with anything, but he doesn't question her. "Ah--is 'at bad?"

"Not at all." Darkfyre's tone carries a half-amused, half-serious edge. "I just want to know who I'm serving."

She looks at Draco out of the corner of one eye again, in the manner raptors casually study something, before bowing her head low and spreading her wings fully in deep deference and respect, the manner a gryphon adopts when addressing one of superior ranking.

"Not many princes come to me so nicely, Sir Cloudcutter of Skirtskynd."

Draco all but stops short, clacking his beak in mingled surprise and agitation. Finally, he manages to stammer out, "Ah'm nae prince, mah quine." Oh, he wishes she wouldn't bow her head like that; it's not right, for a lady to do that, and he's not used to being treated with such deference.

Darkfyre blinks earnestly a few times as she folds wings back against lean sides, then responds in a matter-of-fact tone after another brief preen.

"A clan prince is still a prince." She gives a short screech-laugh, in an attempt to ease Draco's evident agitation. "And a general hardly a queen."

Draco responds with a similar series of blinks. He's addressed all ladies as "quine" his entire life; it's how he was taught. Now he doesn't know how to deal with the blunt, straightforward manner of this gryphon-general. Finally, he manages a reply: "Ye're a quine tae me." Realizing how absurd that sounded, he shuts his beak with a clack and looks embarrassed, dipping his head and laying his ears back.

...

...

Darkfyre prides herself on her mind. It has, after all, carried off the defeat of several armed invasions magnificently, besides having learned a spectacular amount and saved her life more than once. But slowly, she feels its component sectors shutting down under the harmless onslought, and one by one her sensibilities fall under the weight of five words.

...

Still watching Draco, she finally realizes how embarrased he looks. And over no real offense. All because of this damned foolishness that is gentlefolkly behavior.

But the subconscious gripe cannot hold back a slight stab of--something. Something that pushes Darkfyre forward, to rub her head against the front of Draco's shoulder in feline affection and remark with half stubbornness, half reassurance.

"Then you're a prince."

What small bit of Darkfyre's mind and military sensibility had crawled back up the abyss misses a handhold, slips, and with a wail falls back again.

Slowly, Draco begins to relax and is almost amazed when Darkfyre briefly nuzzles his shoulder. Well, at least she's not laughing at him. Or trying to claw his eyes out. Either of these things were what he had been fearing and expecting. He even tries a tentative gryph-grin, letting his eartufts come up and his beak gape open. "Weel then, Ah'm a prince an' ye're a quine. That's that." Briefly, and with little thought, he brushes his cheek to hers in an affectionate gesture, now that he feels a sense of camaraderie between them. Drawing back, he restores some of his dignity (what he has left of it, anyway), and says, almost pleadingly, "Kin we get on wi' it noo?"

"...on with it?"

Darkfyre blinks, before her mind leaps back onto the scene and forces her to shake her head, to dispel whatever thought was resting there. "Right. Warfare." She begins to walk forward again, nodding for Draco to come with. "What can I tell you about war? Well ... you should assume that everyone's at least as smart as you. And the hardest part is finding out who's preying on who, and who you can prey on to survive, and how to hunt them best." She pauses for thought, but briefly. Move, before the time runs out. Never pause too long. "It's like hunting. And being hunted. But not nearly as pure as either."

"Hunting," Draco repeats, to clarify it for himself. Well, that makes sense. Armies, hunting each other across mountain and prarie. . . looking for your enemy's weak point and exploiting it. . .

They're outside of town now, near the forest. Draco stops and peers into the trees. He hesitates, then begins to follow Darkfyre again. He's a little bit hungry, but not so much so that it can't wait; and besides, this is far more important than filling his belly.

Darkfyre pauses, ears turning to take in the sounds around her, and softens her tone as she begins into the forest.

"Want a practice lesson, to refresh your memory?"

Had Draco had any notions about telepathy or anything of the sort, he would have sworn that Darkfyre was psychic. But gryphons are practical sorts and not easily given to the supernatural (well, for a creature that is inherently magical), and so he simply allocates it to supreme good luck and coincidence. His eartufts swivel up and towards Darkfyre, then towards the forest. They're mostly decorative and have little to do with his hearing, but they say a lot about a gryphon's mood and where their attention is. "Ah would nae mind," he replies as he follows her, padding quietly into the woods.

"Good."

Darkfyre takes a leap--not into the remarkable, bounding feline run that gryphons launch into so easily, but directly at a tree. Sharp claws extend, gripping the bark as the panther-like body scoots up the trunk in apparent defiance of gravity, within seconds swinging onto a low-hanging branch. She looks down at Draco, tail swaying and red eyes silently bidding him come, before bounding away through the treetops like a dark spirit.

Draco stares at Darkfyre for a moment. His first thought is something along the lines of that was cool, to put it into late 20th century Earth vernacular. His second thought is, Will she teach me to do that?

Draco comes from a wet, green country of hills and dale, where all you have to do is be higher and faster than your prey. Closed forests like this intimidate him a little, where he cannot see the sky. But, well, he might as well get used to it; he might have to fight in closed areas a lot from now on. And food is food, and Darkfyre will be expecting his backup.

No one has ever said that Draco Cloudcutter shies away from a challenge. He bolts into the forest in a lean, graceful feline sprint, belly low, brown feathers and coat blending admirably with the trees and dead leaves littering the ground.

This is Darkfyre's home, her true home. More than the safe, sterile halls and open pathways of the overwhelming Nicanor Military Complex. More than any of the lands where she was raised or has trained (of which there were many; she had traveled since early youth with her father the lieutenant-general, in times that were easier than this coming one looks to be).

Here, among the dark rustling leaves and dappled shadows, she can smell and see the layers of time and life and nature. Here, no matter what she knows, she still has much to learn; here she is small and inconsequential within the cycle. Here was the world when it was dark and cold and merciless. Here is wonderful and terrible in the way that only true and natural things are. Here there is no war, only life and death, circling and striking and circling again, endlessly.

An... elk. Yes, elk. Darkfyre shifts her course in response to a slight sense of prey's sound and scent, to the north, and picks up her pace a bit, trusting that Draco is somewhere around. Don't you see the seconds slipping, keep moving, there's a checkmate in there somewhere is you only look far enough ahead... She cannot help hearing for a moment the whispered hints given as the hourglass sands trickled away, though the sigh of wind behind her speaks more truthfully than any tutor had.

The woods are as alien to Draco as they are home to Darkfyre. He can't see the sky, only small patches of it through the dappled leaves. There is no time here, only light and darkness and life and death, no sun to judge the time, only the movements of the air currents and the fall of shadows, moss clinging to bark. There are trees where he came from, yes, and forests too, and he had spent time in them as a child, hunting and running and walking, as per his father's stern instructions ("Gryphons kin nae stay in yon sky all day, and elsewhere ye'll find there be more trees 'n sky"). That doesn't mean he liked them or went out of his way to find them. He feels a little claustrophobic.

Neither can he see Darkfyre, though he knows that she's somewhere near. He pauses for a moment to let his eyes adjust, pupils flaring to let in as much light as possible. He's no owl, but he still sees better in the dark than a human does.

There. Something tall, long-legged, with antlers. A deer, perhaps, or an elk. He corrects his path a little more to the west, to make sure he remains downwind but able to catch his prey if it suddenly decides to bolt. Now, who will make the first move?

Darkfyre slows her tree-to-tree sprint, moving slowly as she comes nearer the creature, both to maintain her cover and conserve energy. It is an elk, surely enough, and an enormous old bull at that. What a stroke of luck. Darkfyre crouches in a tree-shrouded branch, tensed as a steel spring and still as death. If she has judged Draco correctly (and she believes she has) he will charge in. And if the creature bolts, which it likely will, she will be able to respond. Should Draco take the kill, all the better to him. But backup has proven itself far too valuable to Darkfyre for her to abandon it as a strataegy now. The time stretches on, smooth as a swift river. She can afford it, though. For now.

Draco waits. And waits. And waits. The elk or deer or whatever it is has definitely noticed that something is up and is looking around restlessly, as if deciding whether or not to bolt. Should he move now? If he moves now, he may ruin Darkfyre's charge.

For a moment, he can hear his father's voice, and he can almost feel a heavy claw cuffing him, albeit gently (gently for a gryphon, that is). "Whit're ye waitin' fore, laddie? Strike while 'e iron's hot!"

So he does. Settling all his weight briefly back onto his hindlegs for a moment, he springs (silently; gryphons are intelligent enough to realize that loud screeches only serve to warn your enemy that you're coming). The elk turns to flee, but not before Draco leaves a long slash on its hindquarters. He lands in a crouch, wings mantled, and trusts Darkfyre to take care of the rest.

The elk bolts in its initial panic, jagging through trees. There is a rustling and snapping of hurried movement in the treetops before a weight of black drops onto the elk's back with a muffled thud, leaving no time for the creature to buck before severing the spinal cord with a vicious twist and slash of a strong, hooked beak. Darkfyre leaps away from the dead weight of the elk as it topples, still twitching slightly, carefully keeping clear of the hooves as she tears out the tough hide and sinew of the throat.

Draco comes trotting up, then stops before Darkfyre and bows before her, not quite as deeply as their initial meeting. He trills something in a different language, exotic and wild as the wind blowing across the grass and through the trees (and it reminds one of wind, yes, blowing off frosty clifftops, and clouds, and flying, wings beating from your shoulders). It's something in the old gryphon-tongue that used to be said after hunts, a humble way of thanking your companion for taking the kill. Draco has, after all, been brought up to be polite.

Then he folds his wings tightly and waits for the elk to finish dying and for Darkfyre to take her share. Ladies first.

Darkfyre blinks in discomfort and nods, trying not to be as stiff as she feels. She recognizes the gist of Draco's comment, and appreciates his giving it--it's very beautiful, and speaks to her in the silent, subtle way of any true art.

But that is all she would be able to say of the phrase, and however beautiful it sounds, she wouldn't be able to translate it directly. Neither does she have any idea if there's a proper response. She's never needed to know, for that is after all the domain of an ambassador or lieutenant-general, and she had no way of knowing she would need to know this...

Searching for something to look at, she focuses upon the elk, the eyes of which arealready beginning to mist over, and tries to calm the almost spasmodic twitching of her tail.

She's agitated, Draco's brain translates the activity of Darkfyre's tail. What about? He worries about it for a few moments. Has he done something wrong? He doesn't think so; the kill had gone smoothly, with no hitches. Remembering the little affair with his addressing Darkfyre as "quine," he decides it's probably his use of the traditional post-hunt thanks. Indeed, the lack of response unsettles him a little; there is a superstition that without a proper response, the next hunt (hunts? There are different versions of the superstition) will go badly.

For a moment, he thinks half-heartedly that if Darkfyre teaches him the art of war, then the least he can do is teach her little traditions such as these. Then he dismisses the idea with a mental laugh. What use will she have for greetings and farewells and what you murmur over a newborn gryphon? The idea is as silly as as feathers on a fish.

Darkfyre blinks, then attempts a tone approaching scientific disinterest, not looking up at Draco but beginning to rake over the side with sharp talons to tatter the hide and give her better access to the steaming meat of the animal. "Could I ask you a question?"

"O' course," Draco replies, feeling somewhat apprehensive, as his tail betrays. He feels like a fledgling again, about to be chastised for knocking something over in the aerie.

Darkfyre's tone for a moment becomes guarded and proper, but slowly slips as she progresses.

"Would you be willing to inform me if I neglect to... do anything... gryphonlike?"

It's a question she does not know how to ask and feels foolish to even imply, and she pulls up a strip of meat, eyes still averted, devouring the still-warm flesh automatically.

Draco blinks. Then he blinks again. After blinking a third time, he decides that this must be a very massive coincidence again, and joins Darkfyre in fidgeting with the carcass. Is she asking what he thinks she's asking? If she isn't, how should he answer? Moreover, if she is, how should he answer?

So he answers the only way he can (the only way he knows how), as he dips his beak to tear a hole in the belly of the beast, lifting out the intestines and placing them before Darkfyre. "O' course, mah quine."

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I'm back, and... *whimpers* please don't eat my eyeballs... -- Darkfyre deGarra , Indria, 18:31:06 12/14/01 Fri
Darkfyre rises and bows slightly, jeweled red eyes closing momentarily in respect.
"I will inform Nicanor of this decision, then, and contact Sayon for reaffirmation. Under the current plan, assisted evacuation will begin toward easily fortified towns, and troops will be moving into position before sunset. You will be informed should Sayon decide to change this. I thank you for this audience, Luther Ajani and Herrol, and this assembly."
She would not have done it differently before a council of war's assemblage of generals. The shining eyes close again as Darkfyre bobs her head courteously one last time, sliding off into the midday sunlight with feline grace.
Mijel, while by no means being one of the small backwoods hamlets that do occur within Ifne's borders, does not boast very much. Right now, Darkfyre heads at a lope for the town's central square, in the center of which stands a simple spring-fed fountain edged around with stone. The square is curiously empty for midday; almost every inhabitant of the town is crowded around the town hall waiting for the news that has caused such a stir across Ifne. Rearing and catching a hold of the ledge of the fountain with her talons, Darkfyre looks into the water curiously.
"Are you still there?"
/ ...hmm? Oh! General deGarra?/
A shadowy form flickers in the depths of the pool, difficult to see past the surface glare of sunlight. A moment later and few feet away from Darkfyre, though, the crown of a damp blond head of hair and a pair of shy blue eyes emerge from the water.
The gryphon lowers herself back to the ground, still easily tall enough to see into the pool.
"Yes, Indria. Might I speak with you?"
The rest of the face emerges, fair-skinned and youthful, followed by everything above the navel of a girl around 15 or 16. A girl of said age, completely nude save for long blonde hair laced through with water lilies, which even now she draws away streaming from her body and begins to braid behind her. Her tone is that of an excited child who is trying to keep calm in the face of adventure but not succeding in the least.
"Well, that's what I'm here for, I guess. I mean, when my sisters sent me with you and all that they said be obliging and..." she takes a deep breath and clears her throat, blushing slightly. "It's an honor to accompany you, General."
Darkfyre bites back a sigh, one of the more humanoid habits she finds herself occasionally slipping into from constant contact with the two-leggers. On top of everything else, she must help along Nicanor's fledgeling alliances, which are progressing well with the naiads and almost so with other water spirits.
Nicanor should've expected the naidads, in a fit of caprice and humor, to send the youngest and least experienced of them as a messenger and aide.
"Thank you, Indria. I have a message for you to bring back to Nicanor, if you would."
"Of course, General!" Indria nods furiously, tying off the end of the braid with a pliant lily stem.
"Tell Lieutenant General Gamble Iain and Ambassador Damek Gaesbar this: Consult with Sayon, and if there are no objections, proceed as planned. If there are objections or modifications Sayon wishes to add, tell Iain he may use his best discretion. Contact me as soon as a decision is reached, whatever happens. You'll remember all that?"
"I promise, General deGarra!" Indria gives a sharp, short bow- something she has seen those at Nicanor do as a sign of respect and now feels is probably appropriate.
"Thank you." Darkfyre almost turns to walk away, then looks back. "And Indria?"
"Yes General?"
"Put some clothing or illusions on before you see Gaesbar."
Darkfyre cannot help but imagine the human male's reaction to Indria as she is, and gives a short, hissing screech- the raptoral version of a laugh. Darkfyre waits to see the young naiad dissapear back into the spring-fed fountain before she heads back towards the town hall and, beyond it, woodlands.
Suppertime.

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Trying to get things moving. -- Luther Ajani and Herrol, 13:05:12 10/21/01 Sun
Herrol mutters an oath and looks sharply to Luther, surprising heat in his eyes for one so worn. "Ajani, what is it you plan to do?"

Why is everyone looking at me? Luther looks helplessly around at the gathered people, then finally turns back to the gryphon. "If Nicanor is prepared for war, then I leave it up to your own generals and commanders to do whatever needs to be done," he says with more confidence than he feels, running a hand through his brown hair. "As for the rest of you, I think that there is no more time for council. Go back to your own towns and begin evacuation towards the capitol and the larger cities that are capable of defending themselves."

"Are you suggesting that we run away?" someone brings up, his voice sharp with petulance.

"No, I'm suggesting we save lives," Luther snaps, surprising himself. "If more Balcs follow those scouts that Lusceh was just speaking of, those fishing villages and hamlets along the coast won't be able to handle an attack. It's better that people who can't fight be evacuated to a place of safety instead of becoming targets."

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Boredom in Seminar... -- Erin Lusceh, 08:56:01 10/15/01 Mon
The stoic woman who had been sitting calmly and sharpening her daggers suddenly looks up, having received a message. She speaks in a raspy voice, the low tone odd for a woman of her size and build.

"So, it has begun."

She looks up at Luther and Herrol, her piercing black eyes piercing the soul of anyone brave enough to lock gazes with her for even a moment, leaving the victim confused and frightened until they can recover their senses.

"The Balcs have landed here on Ifne; a scouting party was just killed near the borders of this country. Decide swiftly what we are to do, Ajani. There is little time for yet another council. War will most definitely see these shores; my advice would be to prepare against it and defend against these lizards. Death will visit one side, mark my words."

And she falls silent again, the black pools of her eyes hooding themselves as she looks to her daggers again.

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No Subject -- Ratt, 19:01:32 08/07/01 Tue

Cheshire Cat: And by the way, in case you're wondering, he went that way.
Alice: Who did?
Cheshire Cat: The White Rabbit!
Alice: He did?
Cheshire Cat: He did what?
Alice: Went that way.
Cheshire Cat: Who did?
Alice: The White Rabbit.
Cheshire Cat: What rabbit?
Alice: You just said --
--Alice in Wonderland

Nis's message didn't go unheard.

In the branches of the tree whose roots he fell into, a shifting of the natural energies soon after did occur. A pair of perfectly round, red points of light appeared and focused on him, seemingly unattached to anything at all. The eyes seemed to jump past him towards another tree, six identical claw marks appearing out of nowhere as the invisble owner of the eyes slid down the tree to the soft loam below.

Four pawprints promptly appeared in the ground, giving anyone who chose to look the impression that the creature was roughly a foot long with a stance that was half that. The twin red eyes swiveled and swung from side to side, finally focusing on Nis.

The four pawprints became eight, then twelve, then more than that as the creature moved forward to get a better look at the figure in the roots. It keeps itself entirely invisible except for it's red eyes as it moves forward again and halts with two paws on the mages leg, remarking with a touch of sarcasm, "That was cerrrrtinally impressive."

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Balcs. (I have permission for this one) -- Nis, 11:44:00 07/31/01 Tue

Nis was surrounded.

He hadn't been in this new place for an hour, two at best, before he realized, up close and personal, just why his uncle had summoned him.

So, there is to be war...

The creatures around Nis appeared reptillian, yet wore clothing (however strange) and moved around same as he. Whatever language they spoke was incomprehensible to his ears, but having what looked like some sort of gun-type weapon pointing at him didn't really need translating, anyway.

Lovely.

A scouting party, more than likely, as they were only three in number. Looking at their features, Nis determined that they were the equivalent of a Tuatara, a Carolina Anole, and a Bearded Dragon. The dragon appeared to be in control as it stepped forward to Nis, giving the mage what could only be described as a 'dirty look'.

"You will surrender and come with us. Resist and die." The voice was deep, gutteral and so thickly accented that Nis almost didn't understand what the thing had said.

But he understood the die part clearly enough.

"O en puv huoph vu foi vufez, vjepl zua."

Nis felt the barrel of the blaster poke him hard in the back. In front of him, the leader growled, clearly annoyed with what it perceived as the ignorance of a lower lifeform. Nis figured they wouldn't know the ancient kagezoku language, which was good since he needed to speak the next part out loud. He watched as the dragon barked an order to one of the grunts, who quickly brought out a small device and started to adjust it.

Could be... translating? Spell would do that, you know... or... do you?

"Vji fesl gmenit duwis vji pohjv epf tu vuu xomm vjiz duwis zuas tuam. Et vji tqedi duptanit gsun vji uavtofi, miv vji gosi sigmidv gsun xovjop."

Nis closed his eyes, making sure these creatures didn't see the whites of his eyes melting away to a blackness rivaled by space itself. He sensed when the device was held closer to his lips, guessing they were recording his words to be able to translate it to a language they could understand.

"Notvitt ug vji sehoph cmedl gushi, hsepv vjot apxusvjz tiswepv zuas eof. Utdasu Itqedou Opgispu."

He opened his eyes. The leader only had a moment to notice the strange appearance of them before Nis' entire form was engulfed in a flame that looked very much a blazing cutout shape of a starry night sky. The strange flames shot out, striking the party square in the chest. For a moment time stood still; nothing happened. It resumed, the creatures left screaming in agony before simply imploding. The flames die away, leaving Nis to sag to one knee. He walked/stumbled toward the cover of a grove of trees, hoping nothing else decided to come along while he caught his breath.

I hate using those spells.

Sighing, Nis settled in the oversized roots of a tree, the shadows dancing of their own accord to cover him over. He closed his eyes at the unnatural chill in the air, knowing it was it's own messenger of foreboding.

Spirit winds... brothers of my brothers, carry the message of what happened here to whatever ears will listen.

His silent words carried along the breeze to find one who could hear them. Nis sagged back, his eyes slipping close.

It comes to past...

::considers translating, then shrugs:: Not necessary, is it?

I'll include the uncle in the next post. I'm running out of steam now.

Reference material for reptiles: http://gto.ncsa.uiuc.edu/pingleto/lobby.html

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Replies:
- Oh yeah, whoever feels like 'hearing' that message, feel free. (NT) -- Gen, 18:02:10 07/31/01 Tue
..... -- Wildfire, and the cubs, 03:55:41 07/31/01 Tue
Wildfire, for the past few minutes, has been warily watching the gryphons. However, it's clear that they mean no harm, and so, she speaks up. "Herrol is right, you know. The Balcs are dangerous, and if not fight, we must defend ourselves. Surely you can't think of just letting them waltz in here and take us all prisoner?"
Tobi and Tim nod fervently from beneath the table. Of course, their mother is right. Their mother can do no wrong.

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