Peredhil

I think it's so fascinating watching how people parse information. I'd written Equiano's witch doctor snippet from a dream I had, and then gave it to Patrick to use if he wished. My thinking was that the witch doctor had laid the curse on the ship for revenge - and the werewolf was a victim through which the curse manifested. From the doctor's thinking, it killed at least the werewolf if detected, but hopefully a bunch of crew as well. Watching y'all thinking that the black magic was done by the werewolf is really cool, to me. I'd never have gone that route without help.

Equiano glared at the ship's crew, his back against the railing. It could be anyone. One of the cargo. One of the crew. A stowaway. The nature of the curse was not yet certain. Holding his medicine bag in his left hand, and muttering a mixture of prayers from many cultures, he began searching the ship. Carefully searching. If it could be found during the daylight, it would be weak. Evil flourished in the dark. voting for Azuran - Paqs

Equiano once again thanked his gods that he'd learned to speak English from the Englishman. He'd been taken as a slave as a curiosity; it was quickly determined that he had no skills. He could not hunt, knew none of the plants safe to eat, could not even cure a hide. However, Equiano had liked to hear his stories of other lands, and other people. The Englishman was a mighty liar, speaking of empires and cities with thousands of people. Of course he already spoke Portuguese. Those white men had been the first to trade for slaves, and still paid the best of the Europeans. He had a smattering of Arabic - the Moors had been buying slaves from Africa for many many generations before the first Europeans came. As an Asante, he had learned a bit of a dozen African tongues. It was good to be able to speak the languages of the other strong tribes, for tribute and trade. For hundreds of years, strong tribes further in would conquer weaker ones. The best of those slaves were given as tribute to the Coastal Asante. They had been renowned warriors long before they traded for muskets. The arrival of the Portuguese had brought terrible diseases that had eradicated entire tribes, far from the coast. The survivors had been easy prey and the earliest of the slaves sold. When Equiano had been taken slave, he'd remembered the Englishman, and saw the hands of the gods turning the Wheel. Like the Englishman, he set about being useful as he could. With his tribesmen, he had set about organizing the slaves. He had requested buckets for latrines, and ensured that they had been used. He had made certain that all slaves ate, not just those near the hatches. Cargo was valuable, and with Equiano in control, it was a relatively healthy cargo that arrived in the Carolinas. The few that had died had been given quietly to the cannibal tribe. Importantly, he had instructed the cargo in basic English words - Master, Mistress, Please, Thank You, I Obey, Buy Me. And so instead of being sold, Equiano had bargained with the Captain to be in charge of the cargo on each voyage. Now, four years later, he was foreman of the cargo, and well-paid - he'd bargained for his freedom and a stake in future cargos - he received one coin in ten from every slave sold. A slave typically sold for 15 English Pounds from the Asante, and sold for 40 pounds in South America, or 45 pounds in the North America. With Equiano doing the buying and caring for the cargo, he was able to ensure he bought the best in Africa. He had invested all his first pay in buying African food in bulk. By giving the cargo familiar fruits and vegetables, there was less dysentery, which led to less disease. Meat had been rare for most tribes, and he gradually introduced the salted meats the crew ate to their feed. He ensured that they were well watered. Many slavers wanted their cargo weakened by hunger or elements. Equiano wanted strong valuable slaves, and feared no rebellion. He also doused them all with salt water weekly, to keep them clean. It cut down on the cleaning after they'd been sold, and held the smell down. He was Asante. He feared no African.

Keyboard all the way. I can barely read my own writing. text-chat, or phone-chat?

Hands Mynx his wallet and keys Cash in paw! Traditions or change?

Equiano is the son of an Asante chief. The Asante are a very warrior-based culture, and have been using prizes of battle as slaves for centuries before the Golden Triangle of Trade, at which point they increased their prowess with better weaponry, took more slaves, and began selling them to the slavers who came to the coast. On the last trip, several of the slaves died of wounds while waiting for the Fat Slug, and the Captain took Equiano and several other Asante to make up numbers. The Asante, knowing their worth, shrugged philosophically and set about making themselves invaluable, taking charge of the other slaves, working the decks, and eventually Equiano was moved from slave to sailor. He is a powerfully built man, with ritual cheek scars that identify him to any who look - particularly other Africans, who look in fear. He has connections with his own tribe in Africa, and with the culture of escaped slaves (mostly Asante), in Jamaica.

Welcome back!!!!! *Polite hugs* This time around, it is VERY low-key, each doing what they can, when they can, as they can.

What to do, what to do? I try but I cannot make myself heard to any but my beautiful dogs, and it just upsets them. There are other spirits, now, but I do not know if they wish the living well or ill. What to do? I am so lost, and the murder continues in most unnatural ways. Lost... (A vote for Graham/Vene is a strike for freedom! That's what the Eagle of Truthiness said. I think.)

Our own Mynx and Tanuchan have e-published to Amazon. Fantasy of course, and under $5. Spread the news, write reviews! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MKD7N1O

Abercrombe was frustrated. He was present, but not really. He could walk through people, and they would get goosebumps and a frisson of chills, but they didn't see him. Oddly, the dogs could sense his presence in a way, but it was cats who watched him. Every one of the cats was able to see him. And they just as obviously didn't care in the least. He was grateful to Graham, in a rather dispassionate way. Things were much milder, emotionally, without a body to provide the juices of life. It was all so... bland. He was much more perceptive of some things, however, without the distractions of feelings and self. He spent quite a bit of time listening to the people of the town talk. It was a bit frustrating in a way - he couldn't go into anyone's homes, although the common areas, such as the inn, caused no barriers at all. Listening, and thinking... Methinks the lady doth protest too much wide-eyed innocence. I vote for Tennison/Tanny.

Abercrombe gazed mournfully at the sheep. Not that there was an issue with them, but he tended to worry. The goats would survive; that's what goats do. Fortunately, his last gasped order had been obeyed, and the dogs had run instead of continuing to attack the beast that had claimed their master. It would've been futile and selfish to let them prove their love and devotion by letting them die for him. He'd sent them to the forest. By now they were probably herding deer. He wondered who would pick up the piss pots?

Welcome to Nightvale! Please, no dogs in the Dog Park! Cecil tells us all...

Me too!

I did an edit on my post to remove where I buried Widow Katt to let Patrick's post be canon - I thought he did a better job, and Mynx used his for her post.

Just one more level, just one more level, I promised myself some sleep. Just one more level, just one more level, I've promises to keep. Just one more level, just one more level, I really need this drop. Just one more level, just one more level, After this one I will stop. New line: An emptied flame erases the reformed skull

The songs that must be sung Echoed weakly through the cave, The songs are sung by one Ignorant world to save. Keeping the demon lord at bay Only one old priest remains, He sings them day by day He sings them through his pains. New line: That gardener hears the girl crying

Abercrombe worked the dogs with whistles and hand-signals, separating the sheep from the goats, then singling out the sheep, one-by-one, to be slathered with homemade flea and tick prevention salve. The dogs enjoyed the work, grinning and lolling as two kept the sheep in a tight group, while Thunder would cut out the designated sheep. In his eagerness, Thunder would occasionally run across the backs of the flock to save time. It not being their turn yet, the goats watched with amusement in their slotted yellow eyes. There was no amusement in Abercrombe's eyes, only the shadows of fear and memory. (OoC: I vote to hang Curtis/Lord Panther.)

Abercrombe was late making his rounds with the chamberpot cart. As he moved from house to house, emptying and moving on, Thunder paced along with him, always two paces to his rear, on the right. When Abercrombe stopped, Thunder stopped and sat. When he moved on, the dog paced after. Thunder looked at everything with bright interest, but carefully followed his training. As he slowly filled the cart, Abercrombe nodded laconically to each person to meet his eyes; there was a fear and suspicion in the furtive glances. He was old, older than he looked, remembered when he was a yonker the white wild eyes in the night, the waving pitchforks and burning brands, the sound of the lynching rope. In a heartbeat, a placid village could change into a killing mob, just as fast a man into a wolf. He'd been three last time it happened, and it had been the social outcasts that had felt the hemp first, long before the beast in man's shape. Or woman's - it had been a young girl that time, who'd sipped from the wrong footprint in the heavy woods that surrounded the town. He hoped no one had seen him outside Widow Katt's home, his normal first stop of the early morning. He'd caught the iron smell of fresh blood as he'd emptied her pot, and peered around the corner to the front. Seeing no one, he'd eased up a might to the door, and peered into an abattoir. He did the animal slaughters for the town, but he'd felt slightly sick at the sight. He'd immediately slipped from town and made a show of coming back later. He'd brought Thunder with him, and planned on having one of the dogs along until this ended - one way or another.

Abercrombe made his early morning rounds, pouring the contents of the chamberpot barrels into the filters atop his piss barrel, and then cleared the reed-woven filter into the "solids" barrel. Looked as if Old Woman Jose had been indulging in sweet corn again. Ah Lord Bartholomew needs more roughage I'm thinking. John needs to be drinking more water from that color. Slowly his little goat-drawn cart moved along the back street and alleys, such a familiar sight as to be rendered invisible. It was still dark when he took the path to the Dumping spot, half a mile down river, and spilled the solids with a heave, using the leather handle bolted to the bottom to shake it in the waters, before a heave wrangled it back onto the car. The cart trundled its way back to town, then across the small wooden bridge to the other side. Down the hills on the other side, the constant breeze that kept the gnats and mosquitos away, and was one reason the town the existed, pushed at his back. The breeze was a reason he kept his tannery vats on the other side, downwind of the hamlet. He poured the contents of the piss barrels into the vat to set. The convection currents of the heat of day and cool of night, over time, would leave any remaining sludge at the bottom, where he'd draw it off in a week by opening a spigot located near the river-side of the vat. Other in the other vat, the scraped hides of goat, sheep, and three deer were soaking and softening; they'd be ready soon. He left the cart there, unharnessing the four goats, and walking with them a short way to the field were they mingled with the sheep to graze. Other goats were at the far edge, munching on the thorn hedge flowers that the sheep couldn't reach. The hedge enclosed three sides of an acre of grass. The fourth side had a four pole fence from one corner, which ran to his small dugout-shack. In the break between the shack and where the fence continued to the far corner was a kennel. Thunder stayed on sheep-watch, while Rain and Lightning came wiggling out to greet him, long-nosed doggie faces and waving flags evidence that they were not only happy to have him back, but that they had no guilt over anything done whilst he was away. He petted and praised the gals, cooing and scratching as he moved to the kennel, giving a lion's share of praise to the large male who'd stayed at his post. After feeding and watering them, he finally went down the dirt steps and, pushing aside the rough woolen blanket covering the door, into his shack. With a weary sigh, he ate his bread, cheese, and cold mutton, washed it down with spring water from the bucket by the door, then went out to start the comforting rhythms of another day - spend the day caring for his flock and being available for any visitors or travelers with tanning, woollen, or mutton needs. At day's end, he'd finally slump onto the pile of blankets on the floor. From the hole into the kennel, the dogs would take turns visiting, Thunder, then Rain and Lightning. Thunder would curl in satisfaction in his royal place at his master's feet, but the girls would each praised, then sent back - it was a warm spring and he'd need no extra fur. Nothing changed in Derulian, and that was just the way that Abercrombe liked it.

My honour in tattered shreds, I wrap myself in their cold warmth, Seeking what solace I might find, "I did no wrong", I cry, But of the many rights, was I wise? My reputation in the heads, Of those who do not understand, I am not certain I even mind, "Your vote is nought", I cry, But of the many rights, was I wise? I am immeshed in the webs, Of inner turmoil and self-loathing doubt, But to myself I must be kind, "Integrity's what matters," I cry, But of the many rights, was I wise? First line, "Jolly little baby mine"

Liquid fire, from olden days, showered down on our position, Despite its age, its fires blazed, on our covering shields. We overlapped, we squatted and shat, it dripped fire around our feet, But we rose again, the women and men, and fought the alien. New Line: In your eyes

Main Character: Peredhil Other Characters: Elladan Elrohir Guido Nuncio

"Found strength in being leaned on." Oh absolutely. Many males forget the reason they have strong arms is to be able to hold and protect others. Up to a point, they needs of a loved one can be empowering. Have you ever be so low inside your body, that it was easier to push the words up to your shoulders to trickle down and out your fingertips than to push them all the way up to your tongue and mouth?

"Absolutely free, to do whatever you choose, this time," Peredhil agreed warmly, "Free to be, to write, to lurk, or to do whatever interests pull you elsewhere." He looked around, and tried to focus on physical bodies instead of auras and hearts. "Huh, when surrounded by magicians and shapechangers, there is a superficial likeness indeed. I once had a friend, looked very much like a octopus hardened for land-use, tell me that he couldn't tell the difference between an Elf and a Gnome. I see things differently, and there are as many perceptions as there are persons. When it comes to opinions, I personally believe that they may be inaccurate, but if sincerely held, they aren't "wrong" as long as they are honestly communicated - opinions come from the meeting of emotion and intellect." He turned and looked carefully at Guido. "Well, how surprising. You DO have ears. It's interesting to look at bodies - that's rather cute."

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and they spent much of it in the other's company. First out of necessity, then out of curiosity. Mynx found it fascinating to listen to the "middle-aged" Elf talk about his life, mistakes and triumphs, openly with her in a ruthless honesty. In return, she found herself discussing things she'd never thought to share with another. Each found an understanding and acceptance they'd never felt before. They fit together mentally, emotionally, as if shaped by a carver, but now they discovered what made that bump there, why there was that dimple there, and what had shaped each other to the person they'd become. "What happens when you wake up some morning and discover I'm an animal?" They were sitting side-by-side, not quite touching, with their feet dangling into a pond. His toes didn't have the wrinkle adaptation that humans did. She stretched her hindpaws under the water, flexing her claws to their fullest extent. "What happens when you realize that I'm literally thousands of years older, and have become peaceful and boring?" She shrugged his question away, intent on pursuing her thought. "No, seriously. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a tigress." She turned slightly toward him and bared all her teeth. "I'm a predator, I'm covered with fur. Why would you want this as more than a slightly perverse fling?" She carefully didn't meet his eye, instead staring at his feet. "And a lovely one, but peace, I understand what you mean." He paused thoughtfully, looking at her bent head, and continued, "Did you know that the Lemuirans were the apex species when I first encountered them? There are no predators because they'd killed them all, and were working on one another." Her head remained bent, but she swiveled an ear his direction. "They had a genetic birth defect, which I eventually fixed, but first I spent quite a bit of the time surviving their attacks and schemes. They were each focused on their own genetic lines, and all the pride and contention for resources that rise from genetic thinking of that type." "They don't even have claws!" "They were tool-users, and had weapons. And any farmer always has implements of destruction when desired." "Must not have been much competition." "Some of the pictures of the predators were pretty well adapted to their role." "Then how?" "When they are threatened, they emit a psychic field that pacifies anything near them. Then they'd just walk up and kill it. They still have it." She blinked and raised her head. "Your point? You always have a point." "It is short-sighted to judge by appearances." He gently traced her whiskers with a butterfly's touch. "I prefer to look at hearts and minds, at words and actions, and their results, over time. Many sentients say things, many things, but the impact of their actions and choices on others, consistently over time, is an excellent metric of what is inside." He 'booped' her nose with a slender finger, and she pretended to snap at it. "After a while, the body someone wears is just as meaningful as the clothing. And I think yours is very attractive." He looked toward the pond, to give her face a moment of privacy. "Did I tell you yet about the Creche People of Doidern? They were each born with four bodies, and switched their mind between them at will ..." Time passed, as it is want to do, and they were together because, regardless of the bodies they wore, or the ages they'd seen, it just felt unnatural to be otherwise. They separated to each pursue their own interests, but always met again. After a time when it wasn't quite as important as it had felt initially, Peredhil finally kissed her, and it only took a bit of cooperation on each side to make it work without bending whiskers or bumping teeth. They were to the point they could both laugh at the process. Time passed, as it is want to do, and while walking hand in paw, they discussed the improbability of their ever meeting, which led to memories of the Mighty Pen Keep. By mutual accord, the next time they separated, they agreed to meet at the Keep, and perhaps make a home there - if anything remained.