Morvani

Hello!

Masquerade, a gathering for Halloween, will be held at Jack in Iron's Throne in Croatoa on October 29, beginning at 11:00 pm Eastern, and ending at 2:00 am. Music will be presented by DJ Pretty Hate and the Cape Radio. There will be contests of poetry, punning and prose, with over a billion inf in prizes available. More information about the contests, including rules for submission and deadlines, can be found at this link: Masquerade Contests Rules!

Thanks for your attention, and hope to see you there!

May 23, 2002, near midnight

"Got a light?"

Officer Trey Mercer slipped his attention away from the structural integrity of the sewer, to fixate on the fine tremor running through the cigarette in the man's hand. "Sure that's a good idea down here?"

The man gave a nervous laugh, verging on hysterics. "I've been trying to quit these things. It looks like I chose a really bad time." He coughed a little, gagging at the aroma filtering up from the fetid water around them.

Trey's reassuring half-grin briefly flashed in the wan illumination of the maglite, though his heart thudded fast and sharp. "Sorry, no matches, but...." He was cut off by a dull, echoing boom sounding just outside the Skyway City sewer. Someone in one corner of the entry shrieked, then whimpered. More booms followed, and a fine stone dust showered from the curved walls of the sewer.

The PPD patrol officer grimaced at the impacts. The unknown invaders had been bombing scattershot for the past four hours, their troops descending from their lurid red portals en masse to systematically destroy the city. His radio had been dead for about as long. Paragon's heroes had arrayed themselves against the foes, leaving public servants like him to do the best they could to serve and protect, which to him meant finding those alive and bringing them to relative safety, trying to treat those he found wounded... and recovering the dead. He tried not to look around the corner to the metal catwalks, where a few bodies had already been laid out.

"I'm thirsty, Momma," a child whined quietly. A woman made a few comforting noises, the sound having a strained edge. Trey glanced back at the voices, but couldn't see past the glare of the maglite between them.

He huffed a quiet breath to calm himself, running a hand through his short, unruly black hair. "'ll go see about getting us some clean water. Maybe a few other things." Tugging on his scuffed leather uniform jacket, he snatched up the metal handle he'd been using to lever the sewer entry open. He swallowed past the metallic tang of fear in the back of his throat, trying to keep his voice and posture steady as his eyes flicked back to the man with the cigarette. "Close this when I'm through. Back ASAP. I'll knock. 'Shave and a haircut', eh?"

The narrow, jagged end of the handle slid easily between the grate and the pipe. He grunted, easing the entry open just wide enough for him to squeeze through. With one final backward glance and a grim nod to the refugees huddled in the gloom, Trey steeled himself, checked his sidearm, and slipped out into the ruins of Skyway.

(For my character Tarosvan/Calawesa/Seven - The Chariot, Virtue Server, primary globalname @Morvani)

Well, I'm amused by 41. Thanks so much!

It's also not a half-bad idea to watch artists on deviantArt.com (for example) or other artists' sites, whose styles you like. A lot of people post art they've gotten here, with links to the artists's dA page, so it's not hard to build up a sizeable list of watched artists (at least, it wasn't for me). Sometimes, these artists run specials for commissions which, while not free, are still pretty inexpensive. Won't mention prices here, since that's verboten, but if you search for JohnBecaro on dA and look at one of his recent journals, you'll see what I mean.

Admittedly, I've gotten a lot of my watched artists on dA from TheMaskedShrike's gallery. >.> You could do worse than to watch her there and see what goodies she gets.

What the heck. Birfday felicitations to your grandpa!

I wish I could provide a shorter bio than what's listed in the VV link. I'm working on it.

Parz:
Gallery
http://s49.photobucket.com/albums/f2...%20References/
Wiki http://www.virtueverse.com/index.php/Parzifal
Story http://tarosvan.deviantart.com/art/Cats-62532862

Parz is fairly tall and athletic, with something like a boxer's build (middle-weight range or so). His hair is auburn, though more on the brown side than the red. It's kept clipped neat and fairly short, as if it's allowed to grow longer than an inch or so, it tends to become unruly and matted, due to the number of cowlicks he has, and the fineness of his hair (though it does grow rather thickly for all that). Even as short as it is, though, it tends to be slightly mussed. Eyes are a dark green, and he wears a beard and moustache, the same color as his hair and also kept neatly clipped and short.

He's rather shy, though it's more of the 'distant' type of shyness. Still, he tends to be very kind, self-effacing and humble. I sometimes refer to him as my 'sweet doormat', as his tendency to put others first has led to him being walked all over, on more than one occasion.

He prefers to wear things that are casual, a little loose, but not balloony or puffy. A few shirts are included in the reference gallery linked above. He also favors t-shirts and sweats or jeans, with sneakers. Sweats tend to be mostly around-the-house wear, though.

[ QUOTE ]
That just made me wonder how uncomfortable your couch would be if it was stashing that sort of money in change....

[/ QUOTE ]

I can see that... especially when you consider I tend to purchase commissions in pairs, one for each of my CoH mains. >.<

Oh, cripes... my bank account is already curled up in the fetal in the corner kibbying and meeping...

I'll have to see what I can scrape up out of the couch.

[ QUOTE ]
I apologize if I offended anyone. I frequent other forums where critique, whether positive or negative, is encouraged over just saying something is nice, and I did not realize it was not appreciated here unless the artist asks for it. I will be careful to keep my observations to myself from now on.

[/ QUOTE ]

Part of the issue here, and this is my own observation, is that the artist in question (IIRC) doesn't even have an account here, and doesn't read these boards. The WIPs that are being posted are being done so by folks who have commissioned, or have an interest in, his work. Your critique may or may not have been well received by the artist, but I feel reasonably safe in suggesting he likely won't see it.

And I don't know about you, but I feel weird about critiquing stuff when the artist won't see it. It's kind of like talking behind their back, to me.

That said, all of these look very spiffy... so much so that I can't wait to see what he does with my third piece. Gawds, I do lurves pencils.

[ QUOTE ]
Head here : http://boards.cityofheroes.com/showflat....=0#Post11265039

So... a lot of people aren't on the list??

[/ QUOTE ]

*nod* There's the MMOArt list, and then there's MMOArt Studio. The art piece I commissioned was through MMOArt Studio, which never got an official list. I'm sure there's plenty in the same boat.

[ QUOTE ]
Skinwalkers? You mean the werewolf movie? It was pretty good. the only thing is that they looked like the wolfmen of old movies than the bipeddle wolves they use now.

[/ QUOTE ]

You're thinking of the 2005 horror flick (which I haven't seen). This 'Skinwalkers' was a 2002 PBS production for 'Mystery!', directed by Chris Eyre. And looking at the IMDB for it, I got the players backwards. D'oh! Wes Studi was Joe Leaphorn, and Adam Beach Jim Chee.

Hopefully, Whiteshaix can finish the art I've commissioned of Calawesa in grass dance regalia soon, so I can post a link here. I think I might have broke her. >.<

I know it's kind of off topic... but there have been a couple of PBS 'Mystery!' films made of Tony Hillerman novels, 'Skinwalkers' and 'A Thief of Time' being among them. Wes Studi was Jim Chee, I believe, and Adam Beach played Joe Leaphorn.

Back on topic-ish, I do have a Shawnee character, Calawesa (also known as Tarosvan), but he doesn't really have an outfit as is being discussed here, as he wasn't raised in the culture, and is just beginning to explore it. He just has a bunch of street clothes and a predilection for wearing motorcycle boots. Good for Martial Arts-set stomping.

I do admit, though... I have, on occasion, tortured artists by commissioning them to draw him in grass dance regalia. *ebil* >.>

((Trey let me write another one. And there was much rejoicing. Yaaaay. *waves tiny flags*

No edits, yadda yadda yadda...))

April, 2008
Light the Lodge Powwow
Storr, Connecticut

Trey stared critically into the mirror. He frowned at the set of the porcupine roach on his barely restrained hair, suspecting that the straps from the leather spreader were still too loose to hold it on properly. A brief retightening seemed to do the job to his satisfaction, after shaking his head to check the fit. Other dancers around him were also checking their regalia, fastening cuffs or applying facepaint, but he paid little attention to them, wrapped up in his own preparations. He pulled at the chains around his neck. They weren't what he'd prefer to wear, but as the mysterious links were bonded wthout seam, there wasn't much he could do. He let them drop.

It had been almost twenty-five years since the last time he'd danced in a powwow, and he was suffering from an uncharacteristic attack of nerves. Trey had been practicing on his own for almost a year now, carefully watching streaming video online of talented grass dancers like Wambli Charging Eagle, Randy Paskemin, and Julius Not Afraid, trying to adapt their moves to his own style. His practice dances had gone well, but this time, he'd be in front of judges, and peers.

Huffing a few short breaths, he bounced on the balls of his feet, watching the sway of the leather motorcycle and flat yarn fringe on the bottom of the apron. He shook out his shoulders, spinning a half circle to the left, then to the right, loosening himself up. The fringe on the green and silver-white regalia swayed agreeably, and he nodded to himself, banishing his nervousness. *Hell, this isn't as bad as karaoke in drag. Pull yourself together....*

He glanced up as the locker room door creaked open. A young man in a tie-dye Gathering of Nations t-shirt, wearing a headset and gesturing with a clipboard, announced to the room, "Time to line up for the Grand Entry. Make sure your numbers are visible on the left waist of your regalia. I'll direct you to the appropriate section of the dance line one or two at a time. Dance with honor, gents." The man waved, and the dancers began to file out the door, doing their final checks on the way.

With another few short, deep breaths, Trey followed, waiting his turn to be pointed to where the grass dancers would be in the grand entry procession. While he waited, he scanned the crowd, checking out the colorful dance outfits of the Southern fancy and fancy shawl dancers nearby. There were several powwow volunteers directing the other dancers into the Grand Entry line. He quirked a faint grin, seeing one of the other locker room doors open to reveal a young woman in faded jeans lead out a group of jingle dress dancers.

*I wonder....* Trey looked over the group, seeing if he could spot a dress he remembered, sky-blue with chevrons of silver jingle cones, and a single silver thimble. None of the dresses looked quite like the one the girl wore long ago, though. There was a faint twinge of disappointment as he was shepherded into his place in line.

In moments, the American flag and eagle staff were lifted, and the head man and lady dancers started the procession into the dance arena. The column of dancers moved slowly, curving around the floor. Trey resisted the urge to look up at the bleachers as he danced out with the others, with only moderate success. He'd invited quite a few of his acquaintances to come watch him dance, but he couldn't spot any of them in his brief glances. Longer looks would have broken his concentration, and he didn't want to miss any beats.

It was much easier to take stock of the dancers around him, studying their moves and regalia. He admired the feathered whip sticks the Northern and Southern fancy dancers used, though the Southern variety were a little too brightly colored for his tastes. Still, he wasn't ready to trade in his flat fan just yet. The traditional buckskin and cloth dancers passed by in a stately, dignified manner, followed by more jingle dresses, this time teens.

It was an almost subliminal glance, but it was enough for Trey to almost lose step. He looked again. One of the teen girls was wearing what looked like an exact replica of the dress he saw so many years ago, except for the beaded, flared-wing eagle design hugging the girl's throat.

With a momentary flare of anger at himself for losing concentration, he got back into step, but promised himself he'd at least look into the identity of the dancer later.

* * * * * * *

After the Grand Entry, the column broke, dancers going their separate ways to either take a break, or ready themselves for the next dance. Trey checked his regalia again briefly, then went to seek the girl in the sky-blue dress.

It was over half an hour before he found her, talking with a teen boy in a chicken dance outfit near a booth selling blankets. Trey waited for a break in the chatter, and cleared his throat. The pair turned, immediately regarding him with the suspicion teens usually have for adults. "'Scuse me, miss," he began politely. "Great jingle dress. You make that yourself?"

Her eyes rolled, but she answered him. "Just the beading. It's my Mom's old dress." An indistinct, older female voice came from some distance away, and the girl responded. "Right here, Mom. There's an -old- guy here asking about your dress." Her tone suggested she thought Trey was 'skeevy' and possibly a perv.

Trey frowned, unoffended by the tone, but touched the corner of one of his eyes, where nascent crow's-feet nestled. *I don't look -that- old...* he thought indignantly to himself, vanity lightly bruised. He shook it off, though, when the owner of the older female voice came into view.

She turned the corner of the booth, carefully maneuvering her crutches around the table. A thick white cast, colorfully scribbled in various shades of marker, wrapped her left foot, peeking out from under a fringed white buckskin dress. She was heavier-set, more matronly than she was twenty years ago... but she had the same face.

Trey froze, shocked. He'd dealt with a lot of surprising coincidences since he'd taken on the mantle of Seven, the Chariot, but this one took the cake. Finally, he realized the woman was staring at him curiously, with a growing hint of suspicion. "Er... sorry. Just... heh. Would you believe this? There was this girl, twenty years ago, and...." He took a deep breath, and sighed, losing the garrulousness. "You wouldn't happen to have gone to the Ann Arbor Powwow around then, and kissed a boy who smelled like frybread?"

The woman stared at Trey a moment uncertainly, then a hint of recognition showed. "No -way-!" the girl exclaimed, turning and bouncing away, calling, "Daaaaaaaad!"

She followed her daughter with her eyes, evidently amused, then looked back at Trey. "You... were him, right?"

He leaned against the wall, thinking back. "Er... black t-shirt, really short hair?"

Nodding, she continued, "And you did this little shuffle in the intertribal...." She trailed off, looking at her foot. "Well, I can't do it -now-."

He laughed. "Don't suppose you can. I'm Trevor Mercer. Trey works, too." It took effort for him to leave off the 'or Seven, or the Chariot' part he was so accustomed to adding.

"Marva Bent Oak," she smiled, "and that little hellion that just ran off was my oldest, Dana. She has the same amount of respect for her elders as most her age do, but she'll grow out of that lack. I did." She tilted her head toward one of the tables nearby, surrounded by chairs. "Do you mind if we sit?"

"Hm? Oh, right. We should do that." Trey pulled one of the chairs out for Marva, and she seated herself, arranging her crutches to be out of the way. "How'd you do that?" he asked.

"Basketball practice with my boy. Old women like me should not be trying to slam dunk," she chuckled. "So, you're the frybread boy."

"Looks that way, eh?" Trey quirked a grin. "Never forgot about that... and never really stopped beating myself up for forgetting to ask your name."

"I could have asked too, you know. I still don't know whether I willfully forgot to, or not."

He nodded. "I just plain forgot. Why did you kiss me, anyway?"

Marva picked at the long fringe on her sleeves thoughtfully for a few moments, then shrugged. "You were cute. And I'd never kissed anyone before. I wondered what it would be like."

"It surprised the He... eck out of me," he corrected himself, noting the number of small children milling about. "So, you're married now?"

"Seventeen years," she nodded in confirmation. "Three kids. How about you?"

Trey shook his head. "No. I was pretty much married to the Job for a while."

"What did you do?"

"Motor patrol... cop," he answered. "For about ten years."

"I run a print shop. Banners, programs, things like that. My husband teaches math. So, you're not a cop any more?" she asked, shifting in her chair to bring her broken foot in further, away from the youngsters dashing around the room.

"On the job accident," Trey replied, hoping he didn't sound as evasive as he was being. "Had to leave the force after that. I do a bit of security guard work now, for a free clinic. Money isn't bad, and the hours are pretty flexible. Enough time for me to practice dancing, anyway."

"Let me know when you're dancing, and we'll watch." Marva paused as a hand rested on her shoulder. She glanced up and back, then smiled wider. "I see Dana found you. Will, this is Trey Mercer. Trey, this is my husband."

The man extended a hand, and Trey accepted. His hair was sandy, but the rest of him looked Native. He grinned in a friendly manner, shaking hands firmly. "William Bent Oak, Cherokee. Osiyo."

"Hi there, nice to meet you. Shawnee, though unaffiliated." Trey looked around the room. "Nice powwow, here."

William looked pleased. "We've been coming here a few years."

"Will, remember me telling you about my first kiss? Well, this is him." Marva chuckled. "After all these years."

Will didn't seem insecure. "No kidding?" He pulled out a seat next to his wife. "Mind if I hear it from your side?"

The three of them talked for some time, Marva sending Dana to fetch coffee at one point. After an hour, though, Trey looked at the clock above a beading booth. "About time for me to dance, eh? It was nice meeting you all."

"Good to meet you, too, Trey," Will returned. "Will you be going to the 49 tonight?" Marva added.

"We'll see if I survive this, first. Haven't danced at a powwow since I was ten." He quirked a grin, arranging his fringe as he stood up. "Paselo, eh?"

Marva waved, as Will helped her up. "Donadagohvi."

Trey turned, striding toward the dance arena.

((Something about Trey (Tarosvan) that I whipped up at work. He'd always been nostalgic about jingle dresses. Now I know why.

Sorry, no editing. I suck.))

Jingle Dress

April, 1989
Ann Arbor Powwow
Ann Arbor, Michigan

Trey sat in the back of the frybread booth, watching men and women in regalia pass in the front while his mother cooked the bread in portable fry-o-lators to one side. He shifted uncomfortably in the rickety lawnchair, trying to avoid hot oil spatters while ruminating on the unfairness of it all. He'd stopped dancing a little over four years ago, when he was ten, yet he was still forced to waste his few, precious weekends helping his mother tend the booth at the various powwows she still attended.

His mother looked sharply at him for a moment. Though a tiny woman, barely five feet tall in sneakers, her gaze was formidable, penetrating. Trey quickly flipped up the algebra book sitting on his lap, opening it to a random page and pretending he'd been absorbed in it all along. He knew she wasn't fooled, however.

"Cal." The syllable was short, sharp, and commanding, and he flinched a little. Though he didn't exactly hate being referred to by the diminutive of his middle name, Calawesa, he much preferred the shorter version of his first name, Trevor. "I need some more mix, and some change from the front office." With one hand, she offered the car keys, while taking a few twenties out of the hammered metal cash box.

Managing not to grumble audibly, Trey took both keys and cash, closing his book and setting it on his unoccupied chair before parting the curtain to the rear of the booth and exiting. "Fives, ones, and quarters, Cal," his mother called after him. "And one case of the mix."

"Yes, Mom," he sighed back, rolling his eyes a little in typical martyred teen fashion. Trey wound his way through the back of the row of booths, out to the floor proper, dodging dancers and visitors until he entered the clearer, cooler hallway. From there, it was only a short walk to the outside, where the Taurus station wagon was parked. Once he found it, he flipped through the keys until he found the one to open the back hatch. The key clicked in the lock as he reflected about the only good part of this weekend, so far. "At least Mom let me drive the... car... last...."

His thoughts ground to a halt as he peered through the darkened glass of the back windows. Just over the car next to him, he could see the face of a girl. Trey stared for a moment, transfixed, mouth gaping, before remembering what he was supposed to be doing. He wrestled one of the large boxes out of the back of the car and onto the ground as quickly as he could, so he could get a better look at her before she disappeared.

The smooth, tanned skin of her face was decorated with stripes of yellow paint from the corners of her eyes to her hairline. Two matched white turkey feathers surmounted a beaded barrette that held her shiny black hair back in a bun. She casually waved an ornately beaded flat fan to cool herself as she scanned the parking lot, smoky eyes ringed with mascara so they'd look more dramatic on the floor.

Trey tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. Suddenly overly conscious of his appearance, he clapped dusty frybread mix out of his black-brown, brush cut hair, worn that way because it was unruly in longer styles. He cursed quietly at the white handprints on his black t-shirt and jeans, and his skinny, rangy build, then snapped to silence as the girl came around the car, walking by him toward the entrance. Her sky-blue dress, decorated with cascading chevrons of silver cones, chimed softly as she strode past.

His eye caught hers, and she paused for a moment in her pace, giving him a momentary up-and-down look. Trey's knees locked, as he tried to give her a nonchalant nod of greeting back, praying to whatever powers were listening that she couldn't see his trembling. Her cheeks flushed slightly darker as she returned the nod, then went on her way.

Once she was out of sight, he sagged into the still-open cargo area of the station wagon, gasping deep breaths of air to combat the tingling and tunnel vision, gripping the floor of the vehicle as if he'd fall out if he didn't. Trey wasn't sure how long he had spent prostrate there, but then he suddenly remembered why he'd been out in the first place. He swore, panicked, snatching up the box and slamming the hatch door before running back into the arena, to the front office to exchange the twenties.

Trey's mother eyed him again when he returned to the booth. "Was everything okay?" she asked him, faint hint of a smile appearing after a few moments of evaluation.

"Er... um... yeah," his voice creaked, and he huffed a breath, clearing his throat. "Just fine, Mom. Got the change, and the mix."

"Good good." She nodded toward the far corner of the booth. "Set the box over there, Cal."

Obediently, he set down the box, returning to his chair and algebra book. He tried to read his homework, but his mind kept drifting. Shaking his head to clear it didn't seem to help, nor did deliberate, focused concentration. He just couldn't maintain it.

After a while, he simply gave up on algebra, instead helping cook the frybread or working the register. He was making change for a middle-aged fancy shawl dancer in purples and pinks when he heard the MC announce over the loudspeaker, "Teen Jingle Dress... Con-TEST!"

Trey blinked, gave the woman her change, then turned to his mother. "Uh... mind if I go get a buffalo burger, 'r somethin'? Getting kinda hungry."

She lifted an appraising brow, then nodded. "Go ahead and take a twenty out of the cash box. Bring me back one, too, when you're done, eh?"

"Sure thing!" he replied, voice creaking on the last word. Trey snatched a bill from the stack and speedily left the booth, heading for the main floor.

Bleacher seats ringed the floor in two levels, a narrow walkway dividing them all the way around. He leaned on the railing separating the walkway from the lower rows of seats, scanning the floor for any sign of a sky-blue and silver dress. It didn't take him long to find it. The girl bounced and spun in the midst of the other dancers, lifting her fan in the air. Trey watched, mesmerised, eyes following her steps unerringly.

He didn't even realize the drums had stopped until the dancers started leaving the floor, his heart had been pounding so loudly. When the MC called out, "Inter-tribaaaaal!" Trey made an unconscious decision. He swung over the railing, scrambling down to the floor, until he was standing just in front and to the side of the Jingle Dress girl. Biting his lip in hesitation, he tilted his head questioningly toward the floor, where a mix of dancers and others from the audience were already shuffling in a left to right circle. Her eyes brightened, and she stepped up next to him.

Both Trey and she danced around the circle, around the drummers, along with the others. Occasionally, he'd introduce a few steps he remembered doing as a junior grass dancer. She laughed at the clumsy moves, though not unkindly, and he half-grinned gamely back, while mentally cursing growth spurts for messing with his style. Though distracted, he did notice that one of the jingle cones on the front of her dress wasn't a cone at all, but a silver thimble. She noticed the look, and winked. "Leap year dress," was all she offered in explanation.

All too soon, the drummers sounded the closing beats, and the intertribal was over. Trey and the girl looked at one another, and she snatched at his hand impetuously, yanking him close. Before he even realized what was happening, her lips were on his, pressing hard, unpracticed. He stared, and pressed back, realizing in that infinite instant that she was kissing him. *How do I... is this... my hands should be... bubblegum?!...* His eyes drifted closed, and he leaned toward her.

Then, she was gone. Quickly, he shuffled off the floor, running his tongue along his lips where the taste of her gloss remained. He felt a little woozy, but kept himself upright, managing to remember to grab a buffalo burger before returning to the frybread booth.

Trey's mother looked up as he parted the back curtain and slouched in. "How was your..." She paused, taking in his flushed, unsteady state, a slow, secret, yet every so slightly sad smile appearing. "... your burger?" she finished.

"Burger... yeah... uh. Burger was fine." He quirked a lazy, distracted, self-satisfied grin.

This was the best weekend of his life.

Quick as a whipcrack, his mother asked, "What was her name?"

His jaw dropped, voice coming out in tight, near noiseless exhalations. He hadn't asked. Trey was oblivious as his mother shook her head slightly in sympathetic amusement.

This was the worst weekend of his life.

I want to feel better about my pathetic life!

... but I gotta wait until my income tax check comes in for sweet, sweet relief. >.>

Until then, watched!

((If you're going to throw anything, throw bananas. That way, I can make some bread.))

A smudged brass plate on the heavy wooden door read 'Irene Hunter, Ph.D, CCC-SLP'. Parzifal pushed the door open, blinking at the subdued lighting in the waiting room. Most of the chairs were unoccupied, save for a few closest to the receptionist's window. He strode past them, gesturing for the receptionist's attention and speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the others waiting. "Phillip Astor, for my four o'clock appointment, marpleg." The receptionist pointed with his pen, indicating wordlessly that the knight should take a seat, then returned to his paperwork.

Claiming a seat against the wall and tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, enjoying a few moments of quiet after his noisy public transit ride from Paragon City to Pawtucket. Soon, however, he became aware of a rhythmic thumping noise coming from someplace to his right.

He opened his eyes, turning toward the sound. The origin was a pair of dirty sneakers, worn by a small girl of perhaps seven or eight, seated on the row of chairs in the center of the waiting room. Clumps of dried mud fell off the soles as she clapped them together nervously. Though the rest of her garb was obscured by the sizeable stuffed dog sitting on her lap, he could see enough to recognize that she was wearing a typical girl's winter uniform for Catholic school... thick slacks, and a light-colored oxford with a cardigan sweater. Her dark hair was held back by a pink plastic headband, its edges decorated with tiny daisies. Wary eyes peered back at the knight from behind the dog's floppy ears. Parz simply nodded silently with a small, gentle smile, then turned his attention elsewhere.

Magazines littered the table to his left, and he picked one up, flipping through it. He found he could not pay attention to it, however, partially because he had no interest in the doings of Hollywood glitterati, particularly a year or more out of date; and partly because the thumping of the girl's shoes didn't cease. Parz set it back on the table, and looked toward the girl again. "You are nervous, aye?" he half-whispered to her.

She looked around, and seeing that he was looking right at her, she gave a slow, somewhat suspicious nod, which he returned.
There was a sudden creaking sound, exaggeratedly loud in the quiet, and both of them glanced to the waiting room door, which was opening to reveal a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man, with the same shade and thickness of dark hair as the girl. He sat down next to her, whispering to her in waiting-room volume. She smiled a little, wiggling in her seat behind the dog, but Parz could see a hint of an anxious, uncertain look in her eyes, and recognized it. He'd often worn that same look himself, when he was a boy of her age.

The man noticed Parz' attention, and leaned toward him, elbow on his knee. "Here for an appointment?" His voice was gruff, but conversational.

"Aye, I am," the knight returned in his own soft British-tinted baritone, as he offered his hand. "I am Phillip Astor."

He accepted it, and Parz resisted the urge to reach further up his arm, to shake hands in the old way. "Jeff Mayfield," the man responded, shaking firmly.

"It is good to meet you, Sir." Parz' gaze turned toward the girl as he sat back. "And you are?" he prompted gently.

She glanced up at the man, who spoke a quiet affirmative back to her. "Tr-tr-tricia," she replied meekly, while simultaneously ducking further behind the stuffed dog.

Parzifal's grin was warm. "It is good to meet you, Miss Tricia. And your friend?" he asked, indicating the dog.

The girl's face screwed up in an expression half-frustration, half-concentration, trying to work the words out. Parz simply waited. "M-m-m-m-m-morgan," she replied, gasping slightly at the end.

The knight greeted the dog with solemnity, as he would the guardian of any young girl... since this was likely how Tricia regarded the plush. "It is good to meet you as well, Morgan." The corners of Tricia's lips turned faintly upward. He noticed this, and spoke to her again. "Is this your first visit to Dr. Hunter?"

Again, she looked at the man, her father, but nodded quickly before getting confirmation. "We just moved here, from Pennsylvania," Jeff explained. "It took a while for us to get an appointment with the doctor." He mussed the girl's hair a little, affectionately, and she squirmed again, batting at his hand in annoyance.

"She has been my therapist for most of my life." Parz flashed a quick, self-conscious smile. "Stutterer. Developmental... since I was two. Dr. Hunter is very good at what she does."

"That's what we were told," Jeff confirmed as he settled back in the chair, comfortably stretching his legs out in front of him.

Bravely, Tricia ventured from behind the safety of Morgan, and looked over Parz with a gravity incongruent with her years. She tilted her head, then took a soft half-breath before saying, "Y-y-you, t-t-t-too?"

"Aye, me too. I was unable to control it entirely until around the time I entered college, and I still lose control, betimes. I am here for a routine visit." He laced his fingers together, resting them on his lap in a relaxed fashion. The girl smiled wider, showing off the prominent gap in her front teeth, but she said nothing.

"What do you do, Mr. Astor?" Jeff asked.

After a pause, Parz answered, "Law enforcement, Sir," but didn't elaborate.

The man offered, "Truck driving instructor," in return, before glancing at his daughter. "It's been an adjustment." There was a vague tightness in his tone, a hint of sadness shading the corners of his eyes.

Parz nodded in deep, wordless understanding, recalling his own father with a pang of melancholy. "It can be difficult, aye, with a new place, and new people." His eyes drifted toward Tricia, and he regarded her for a few moments. She looked uncertainly back. He gave her a reassuring smile again, and picked up one of the outdated children's magazines on the table, flipping through the pages until he found a suitably colorful picture. Then, with a conspiratorial wink toward her, he coughed loudly while simultaneously ripping the page out of the magazine. The receptionist peered out of his window with a mild look of annoyance before he took in the scene. Though he was obviously not fooled by Parz' clumsy ruse, he simply shrugged, and returned to his work, closing the frosted glass after him.

Tricia craned her neck curiously as Parz worked, trimming the page until it was square, then beginning to make folds in it. "A friend of mine once made me one of these," he explained as he worked. "To make me smile." In a few minutes, he perched the finished product on his knee... an origami swan. He glanced toward Jeff before picking it up again, and offering it to the girl.

"L-l-l-like th-th-th-the U-u-ugly D-d-d-duckling?" she asked sadly, stretching out her hand for it.

The knight shook his head as he left the paper in her grasp. "Not at all. I see nothing ugly here, duckling or otherwise. Swans are beautiful, aye, but they are also brave, and strong, and loyal. Someone I... knew once, favored them. Took them as his symbol." Whether Jeff or Tricia could hear the note of grief in his voice, Parz couldn't tell, though he tried to obscure it. "I think fondly of them, because of that."

There was a loud creak, as the inner office door swung open. "Phillip Astor?" the woman announced, and Parz stood in confirmation. "This way, please." He bowed his head slightly in greeting to her, then looked back at the father and daughter. "It was good meeting you, and I hope things work out well in your new situation."

"Thanks, nice to meet you, too," Jeff replied, as Tricia waved shyly with the swan. Parz turned and walked into the office.

Hello. I am a horrible teammate to do a TF/SF with, or team with.

I am a 24/7 caregiver to a wheelchair-confined man with multiple sclerosis. I often take unexpected AFKs, sometimes half an hour in length, to take care of his needs. Our resources are pretty thin, and I have to carefully manage the times I go out to work or for errands to make sure he's not alone too long. Going out for amusement or recreation is pretty much out of the question.

So, my social life and recreation is this game. I have a small handful of people whom I am in an SG with, who can tolerate my sudden and lengthy absences, but they've started to drift away from the game. I don't generally do PuGs, for obvious reasons. So, I solo most of the time.

Even with my stumbling blocks toward participation in teams in this game, I'd manage to get in a TF or so a month. Sometimes we'd finish with everyone who started, sometimes we wouldn't, but we would finish, and usually there'd be more than three or four of us.

With this change, my participation on a team has become more a burden than a tolerated inclusion. Before, if I needed to take an extended AFK, I would simply log from the game without quitting the TF. The mission or two I would miss would be adjusted for the new number of team members, and when I came back, it would be adjusted again, and I'd continue on until either I needed to AFK again, or the TF finished.

Now, if I take an AFK to feed him or take care of his bathroom needs, my TF team still has to pick up my mobs, even if I'm not online. And forget me getting in on any TFs once players find out that, yes, I -will- likely need to go away for up to half an hour at times. I lay this right out at the start if, for some reason, I join a team that doesn't know me well. Honestly, how many of you reading this would want me on your team, knowing this?

Sure, I could go play another game, an offline that I can solo... but I'd miss the social aspect. And even soloing this game, yes, there is a social aspect, with the global channels, /tells, and when they're around, coalition and SG channels. There are people I can talk to. Besides that, there's simply no other game quite like CoH. So I stay here.

I could simply avoid TFs altogether, sure. But I find badging fun, and I like getting the TF Commander accolade on my various characters. I enjoy taking on the AVs at the end. Do I like the chance at a rare recipe? Sure, I do, just like I used to like the prize in a box of Crackerjacks or breakfast cereal when I was a kid, but it's not central to my enjoyment of TFs. In fact, if there was a way to do TFs the same way we did before this change, just by pushing a button at the start that said, 'No Recipe', I'd do it in a heartbeat.

This change to TFs has pretty much turned me into the bad guy. Considering all the other roadblocks to me just having a little fun, it makes me sad. And considering what I've learned about this actually helping out some of those it was supposed to deter, it leaves me a little angry and confused.

[ QUOTE ]
PS. Whoever won my kiribian, I need you to resend me the screenies of your character!

[/ QUOTE ]

Should be a PM in your in-box now.

Answers to your questions, from my PoV:

a.) How do you find an artist?

You're in a good spot, here. The artists I've commissioned, I've largely found through people posting works they've gotten here, and by extension stuff the artists themselves have favorited in DeviantArt.

b. Finding out what the different kinds of art are called.

I don't worry so much about that. I see something that knocks my socks off, and I don't quibble too much about what they name it. Granted, some of the stuff is fairly obvious... pencils (which I am a huge fan of) or inks, for example. Other stuff might be a bit obscure, but if you're ever in doubt, can't hurt to ask the artist him/herself. I've yet to talk to an artist here or on DA who wasn't interested in talking about their work. Communication can take some time, though. Patience (and judicious persistence) is a virtue.

c. ) Payment.

Paypal is pretty popular, yeah. I've heard of people using Western Union, too. I've dealt with a few artists out of country who use Paypal through Xoom to get payment, since Paypal isn't available in their country. I think I've even seen a few who will take money orders. Again, talking to the artist never hurts.

Hope this helps.

Watched on dA for future consideration. Might want to edit out the price info, though, in case TPTB take notice. >.>

Normally, I just PrintScreen (or PrntScrn, whatever button is on the keyboard), then open up Windows Paint and hit the Paste command and save. Rinse and repeat for each screenie. I understand there's a directory in CoH that saves these things, too, but I'm too danged lazy to root around for it.

Thanks for the info, and the contest. You should be seeing a PM from me in your inbox shortly.

So... um... how do we claim this thingie? *waves .jpg*

I'll take seven.

[ QUOTE ]
darn I wish I could see the faces of my clients when they see the work for the first time... that would be nice. Congrats, can we see the painting?

[/ QUOTE ]

Unfortunately, I don't have a scan of the painting itself, as it's pretty huge... more than two feet by two feet, and the last time I scanned something that large, it cost me a c-note and change. I am also a craptastic photographer, but I'll give it a shot with the old 35mm this weekend and see if I can't get something decent to come out.

In the meantime, I did get a pencil sketch early in the commission process, that I scanned from my printout (it's still on my fridge).

For me, it depends on the situation and type of commission involved, and what caveats have been put on it beforehand (artist has long queue, computer issues, etc.). The key is communication, I think... I'll overlook just about any reasonable delay if the artist lets me know, somehow, what's going on and why things are bunged up.

Really, good art is worth waiting for. My favorite piece took a year to produce, and it was done by an artist who... well, she's more than an acquaintance, though maybe not quite the type of friend who I see regularly, go to dinner with, etc. Suffice it to say, we see her at conventions, she recognizes and knows myself and my husband. Long story time, as I am an old fart and like to tell stories, so either scroll past or get the footie jammies and hot cocoa.

We always told her that, once we got our own place, we'd commission something from her. Well, we finally did get our own place, and at the next Origins convention, we did commission something.

We left it rather purposefully vague as to what we wanted, because we really, really liked her style, and wanted it to be something she liked, too. So, we just gave her a few elements that we liked. My husband chose dragons, of which she heartily approved. My contribution was that I liked waterfalls, and autumn leaves. She worked on a few prelim, bare-bones sketches over the weekend, and showed them to us on Sunday before we left the con. We picked one, and then let her go at it.

Now, this was a sizeable piece, 24x26 I think, in acrylics, so a year was given as the estimated delivery time, which was more than fine by us, as she was also giving us a friendly discount. I won't go into exact figures here as that's a no-no, but suffice it to say that the twelve-month payment schedule was more than warranted.

So, I'd send the payment in every month, and she'd give me updates about what was going on, not only with the commission, but with other things in her life, as she's also got her own RPG and stuff. I'd tell her about what was going on with us. Sometimes, there'd be no real progress to report, which was okay. Sometimes you have to let stuff sit and stew. Other times, she'd tell me about having to get up in the middle of the night, shaking so badly that she had to go back to working on the painting.

After a year, we exchanged e-mails about picking up the commission, and it was decided we'd pick it up during the return of the convention we had first commissioned it at. We opted for an included mat (but not frame) and a silver ink sketch and signature in one corner of the mat.

First evening the dealer room was open, we went in to see our painting. We made our way back to her booth, and caught our first glimpse of the painting. I was absolutely poleaxed, and just stood there for several seconds staring. It was gorgeous. It was ours: mine, my husband's, hers. She just watched, smiling a bit.

Then I started to cry, and she joined in. We cried, and hugged, and hugged and cried, right there on the dealer room floor. Bawled our friggin' eyes out. Hubby was a bit more reserved, but his eyes were still pretty moist, and he got his fair share of hugging. I still get a bit weepy thinking about it. It was all good.

Someday, I'll commission from her again. I have no doubt it'll be great.