Morvani

I think as long as you don't mention ice-prays *head twitches toward dollar sign in a conspiratorial manner*, it's all kosher.

I'll have to have a look later, when I'm at work. More time to browse forums then!

I'll keep my eyes open as well. Sometimes I go on sightseeing tours around Paragon, and find some pretty nifty places.

((Give Tarosvan a shot if you like. There's a link to his reference gallery in the sig. I'd shove Parz forward, but his gallery needs a bit of work, and many more screenies. Muchas gracias.))

The last entry on the MMOArt site, posted on 5/31, indicates that he is recovered and getting back to work.

I haven't received anything, either, and it's been a while. I posted about the problem here before. I hope everything's okay.

Seems like this is art week for me... here's what Manuel Clavel did with my ghost, Trey, aka Tarosvan, avatar of the tarot card Seven, the Chariot...

Seven Hangs Ten

Of course, that's not what Manuel titled it... I just like calling it that because Trey calls BanPan totems 'angry surfboards'.

Less than a day after sending the first e-mail, Hugo delivered these terrific sketches of my two boys,

Parzifal and Trey, AKA Tarosvan

Going back to counting my nickels, now. Need more artz.

... I guess the worst that could happen is the thread is removed, so I'll go ahead.

Has anyone heard anything from MMOArt recently? I have a sketchcard/t-shirt order with them from a few months ago, and sent Lush an e-mail asking about progress on it, but it's been a week without reply, which is -absolutely- not like her. Also, I note that there hasn't been an update to the website since the end of May, and their forum seems to have vanished.

I just wanted to check and see if things were A-OK, or if anyone had any idea what was going on. PMs are spiffy.

((Or, if you're reading it in Chinese... tian di. I think. It's been a while. >.&lt)

((*looks at PayPal account*

*looks at samples*

*looks at PayPal account*

*adds to dA favorites and ponders*))

I once volunteered to be a 'victim' at a local Boy Scout First Aid Meet, along with a bunch of my fellow Explorer Scouts. The local National Guard came 'round and made us up with prosthetic broken bones, pancake bruises, lumps, gashes and fake blood...

... and afterward, we went to Taco Bell. Without removing the makeup. Priceless.

I tend to pick RL references for a few of my characters, too. Tarosvan's is David Midthunder, Gui Feng's is Takeshi Kaneshiro, and slapping a neatly trimmed beard on 'Due South' era Paul Gross makes a darn near perfect Parzifal. I don't really have any for the others, yet, as I haven't had need to look.

Thanks for the opportunity. I don't know how classic or 'age-y' Tarosvan is, but he's one of my two main guys, so here goes with the screenshots and optional description:

Tarosvan Front

Tarosvan Side

Back

Close Up

The screenshots are the 'ghostie' Trey. I have others of his less chromatically-challenged form. Powersets are Dark Melee/Dark Armor/Dark Epic, scrapper. His travel power is flight. And now, very, very short background. Really short. He's going to be my next NaNoWriMo project, if that tells you anything.

Once a ten-year veteran of the Paragon Police Department, Trevor Calawesa Mercer, or Trey, is now the avatar of the Major Arcana Tarot card Seven, The Chariot, and a member, sometime acting co-leader of AFAR. Until recently, he was a ghost, having died on duty. Only his acceptance of the offer to become an avatar kept him tied to this world. Now, after a ritual in which he performed the Grass Dance, he is alive, but weak, bedridden, and unable to access the abilities he once did as a ghost. He is undergoing physical therapy to learn how to use his body again, and hopes to discover how he might access the power he once had. He suspects a key may be learning more about his heritage as a Shawnee, something he didn't explore very deeply prior to his acceptance of the Chariot.

((I got 1008 ... saved the screenie, just in case. Good luck to folks!))

[ QUOTE ]

Okay look at it this way Kat. You have the money but can only choose one artist from DA to do a piece for you, it can be anyone but you won't be able to afford another piece forever. Who would that one artist from DA be?

[/ QUOTE ]

(( I'd refuse to live in such a world! *hails taxi* Next dimension, please, and don't spare the pedal! ))

Don't know about him, but I hit 'PrtSc' button, then paste immediately into Windows Paint, and edit from there. You can only do one shot at a time, as the Clipboard can only hold one image, but it's not too difficult to save in between.

((Ack! Double post! Sorry. >.&lt)

((>.> <.<

My main SG, AFAR, actually has characters that are avatars of the various Major Arcana. In fact, I recently had one of mine, The Chariot, Tarosvan, done by Darkfang. ^_^ Linkie here:

The Chariot, Seven

We're expecting to get more done. Next will probably be The Tower, Rue Vex.

Just an example of great minds, I suppose. ^_^))

Kind of my first time poking around here, but... what the heck? If I'm still in time for this, how about trying my ill/emp Gui Feng?


Gui Feng

Thanks for the opportunity. ^_^

((Yet another collaborative narrative. This occurred a few months before the wedding of Parz (Phillip) and Ebren, on a trip to England. Setting: Archaeological dig somewhere in Cornwall, England, where the grave of Parz' wife in his former life, Condwiramurs, has been discovered. Ebren's parts were written by VenkaFusion.))

Phillip parks the small roadster in a dirt-paved depression on the side of the road. Since the convertible's roof has already been stowed, he simply swings out of the vehicle, walking briskly to the other side to offer Sky a hand out. "Dr. Snow said the dig would be close by here. I hope they have not waited upon us for too long."

"I'm sure it's not a problem." She murmurs pensively, taking the hand with a thankful nod of her head. Sky delicately climbs out of the vehicle, deliberately not using powers to simply levitate.

Despite the warmth of the summer noontime sun, Phillip's hand is cold... perhaps a little colder than usual. He smiles faintly as he slowly leads the way down a small, trammeled path, into the woods. "Fortunately, her directions were quite good. I had feared we would be searching for it all day."

She follows, not letting go. Pensive and quiet for the last few hours, she takes in the surroundings without comment on his grasp. "Oh?"

"Aside from the American disorient with driving on what we consider to be the 'wrong' side of the road... I have never been that good a navigator on driving trips. Not that we ever took that many. Mom and Dad preferred to stay close to home. Still, there were the trips to Pawtucket for tests and the like." He shrugs, ducking under a low hanging branch while lifting it with his free hand.

She follows, ducking under his arm with another nod of thanks. "I suppose I would have been far more lost, regardless of what side I was driving on." The smile turns a bit rueful.

"Not exactly your home ground here, aye?" he asks, walking around a curve in the path. Far off, the faint hum of human voices can be heard.

She shakes her head mutely, looking a bit more tentative, and falls silent as they reach the clearing. Sky lets him take the lead.

His brow furrows as he glances back at Sky, but before he can ask, a rather stocky woman in straw hat and dirty work gloves steps out of one tent, in direct view. She examines the pair with a critical eye. "You're expected, are you?"

Phillip nods, bowing his head. "Ehm... aye. Phillip Astor, and Ebren Sutcliffe. We...."

The woman waves her hand, forestalling his finish. "Good enough. Anita Snow, Dublin University. I'm in charge of the dig. If you'll just wait here...." She ducks back into the tent, leaving Phillip simply shaking his head and giving Sky a helpless glance. Her hand tightens in his and she gives an encouraging nod that is meant to reassure him even if she looks uncertain. It only takes a minute before the doctor emerges, clunking the heels of her boots on the ground, one after the other, to settle her feet in them. "Right. So, I'm told this is... your wife's grave?" Her disbelief is evident.

Ducking his head a bit, he gives a small nod. "Aye. Her name is... was... Condwiramurs. Condwi." There is a hint of wistfulness in his tone.

"We already know that. Inscriptions on some of the grave goods," she explains crisply, but not unkindly. "This way, please." She begins a brisk pace toward the north side of the clearing. His eyes a bit wide, Phillip follows. Hesitant, Sky follows, relaxing her hand as though to let him pull away if he chooses. She peers this way and that in a nervous sort of way. He doesn't seem inclined to let go as he follows the doctor to a very large tent erected in the middle of a field. "We'd had some rain, so we put this up until we could get something sturdier to protect the site until we're done cataloging the artifacts." Phillip winces a bit at the last word. Dr. Snow gives no evidence of noticing, continuing with her talk. "We have materials for a steel shed that will arrive here later in the week. It'll keep her safe." Shedding her no-nonsense manner a moment, she asks, "If you don't mind, there's a favor I'll ask of you later?"

Eyes fixed on the tent, he gives her a distracted nod. Sky turns to listen, giving her full attention so that she can at least relay it later if he should miss something. "Right." The doctor gives a smart nod. "I'll leave you to it, then. Mind the stakes. We just laid out the grid last week, and we haven't had a chance to finish the mapping. I'd ask you not to touch anything, but under the circumstances...." Her voice trails off, and he seems to examine him critically again. "You have some very influential friends, Mr. Astor."

He blinks at her, uncomprehending. "Aye, I suppose," he remarks in a faint voice, stopping just ten feet outside the tent flap.

Another smart nod, and Dr. Snow turns to head toward the camp, calling back, "Just stop by when you're done."

Sky looks up at him and then at their destination, chewing on the corner of her lip. "Than-Thank you, Doctor." Her only answer to that is a wave as she walks back. Phillip stands there a few moments, jaw working, eyes squinted. There is a faint tremor in his fingers as he slowly walks toward the tent. He twitches the flap aside, then pauses.

The tent seems to exhale, a breath of stale, close air mixed with freshly turned dirt. Inside, the tent is somewhat dark, sunlight filtering in through small pinpricks of holes in the weave of the canvas. He stands there, just outside. She pauses, and looks down. Still chewing on her lip, she squeezes his hand tightly. << You can do this, Percival. >> She murmurs to his mind, a very quiet strength echoing her thoughts that is only for him.

He blinks, giving his head a very small shake, as if to clear it. Looking toward Sky, he gives her a small nod, then steps into the tent, just one pace, and letting the flap fall closed behind them, waits. Once their eyes adjust to the wan light, the contents of the tent become clear. Two tables are set up to one side, laden with pencils, rolls of twine, pieces of paper, clipboards, lanterns, and other detritus of academia. To the other side of the tent, there is a dark depression. Phillip finally drops Sky's hand, carefully walking to the table to pick up and click on one of the lanterns. The sudden bright light stings his eyes, and he shades them, waiting for them to adjust again. Sky hovers near the tent flap, inside but barely. She glances aside uncertainly and takes a few hesitant steps forward, stopping a pace or two behind him.

Licking his lips, he takes two slow steps toward the pit, hunkering down at the edge. His eyes closed, he lets his hand fall down toward the pit, so the light from the lantern illuminates the contents. << Can you... see anything? >> he asks, a hint of his stutter showing even in his mind voice.

Stakes ring the bottom of the pit, stringed with twine forming a grid over it. Brown, waxy bones lie underneath, still partially buried, the hints of bits of fabric or wood lying about them. Broken jewelry lies strewn around the skeleton, scattered beads and faceted gems glittering darkly. Sky swallows hard. << Yes, Phillip. >> She moves hesitantly to kneel beside him in the dirt, resting a hand in the loam. << She was buried richly. >> There is a hint of approval that she should be given a very proper and respectful burial.

He chews his lips a moment, giving a small, nervous nod. Finally, he opens his eyes, staring at the bottom of the pit for a full minute, before closing them again, sitting back rather hard and suddenly in the dirt. He covers his face with one hand. << I... I gave her that bracelet. Red amber. One of the beads... there was a piece of butterfly wing. >> His mind voice is oddly hollow.

Sky seems unsure of whether to leave him or move closer. She sets her hand closer to him and leans a bit closer to be available. Uncertain of what to say, she finally manages softly, << You were very good to her. >>

<< I tried to be. >> He doesn't accept the comfort, but he doesn't shy away, either. << I could not be there for her all the time, when we were first wed... there was too much to do. >> There is a faint sniffle. << I could not be there for her at her death, either. >> A feeling of despair wells up, spilling into the link. He pushes it back. << She loved amber. The way it smelled. It was her scent. >>

Her eyes flicker away thoughtfully for a moment, and she decides inwardly, which he can likely sense, that he is not asking for comfort because he feels he does not deserve it. She determines otherwise and scoots a little closer, drawing him into an embrace that is gentle and careful. << Would that I could have known her. You were there as much as you could be, Phillip. Your times did not allow for more. >>

His thoughts seem to have a brittle edge to them. Closing his eyes, he concentrates, forming an image of a woman. She is rather robust, almost Castilian in the dark cast of her skin and hair, dressed in a yellow homespun gown decked with beads of amber about the neck. There is a pang when the image is complete, and a small sob escapes him. << Condwi. >> Love, powerful and heartbreaking, attends the picture, though his expression shows little outward sign.

Sky chokes on a sob and stifles it, turning her face away. Her own emotions she tries to keep away, confusion and sympathetic pain shoved deep in the pits of her mind. Struggling to find words, she manages almost silently, << She was so beautiful. >> Conflicted and hurting for him, she simply sits, holding him.

His hand drops from his face, lighting on Sky's arm. He stares into the pit for long minutes, thoughts carefully blocked. There are no tears, only a faint roughening of his breath, the occasional small sob in it. Finally, << Aye. She... was. >> A strange sense of resignation comes over the link. He leans forward, fingers tentatively stroking the skeleton's upper arm bone. << Condwi, >> his voice comes back, sounding a bit different. Older. Care-worn. << Condwi, my angel, this is Ebren. >> There is no answer. He doesn't seem to expect one.

The choked sob becomes a silent stream of tears as she looks down, drawing in tremulous breaths. The silence, which scares her, turns to a worried sort of resignation, and then a very deliberate sympathy. << Hello. >> She speaks softly, though clearly not to him. << Thank you. >>

A few more minutes pass, and he sits there, still touching the skeleton, chewing his lips. Turning to look at Sky, he gives a small, nervous nod, and begins to scoot away from the pit. Sky releases him, and just looks down. She murmurs something in a breath too silent to be heard and closes her eyes, still crouched there. He stands, walking with exaggerated care toward the worktables. The lantern is clicked off, and put back in its place. Slowly, he moves toward the tent opening, carefully opening the flap. Standing just inside, he waits, holding it open. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she murmurs one last thing before standing. A maelstrom of emotions churns, and she tamps it down, stubbornly pushing it away. Her ire at herself for being so tumultuous is nearly tangible, and she studies the ground as she ducks the tent flap and steps out into the air.

He follows behind, gently laying one hand on her shoulder, which drifts down to her hand, grasping it. << If... it is all right... Dr. Snow will be expecting to speak to me. >> His mind voice is rather clipped, precise, as if concentrating on each syllable before speaking it. << I fear I will not be able to. If you could... >>

She squeezes his hand and nods. << I shall attend, Phillip. It's alright. >> Without looking up, she briefly kisses the back of his hand and then turns to find the doctor, releasing him. Tears pushed down, she sets her shoulders and forces herself to be calm and able, for his sake.

<< Meur ras, >> he answers, tone subdued. Taking a deep breath, he walks toward the camp.

In the clearing, Dr. Snow stands over a table next to a lanky, sunburned youth with black hair. Both of them look up at Phillip and Sky's approach. As the young man drops his sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes, the doctor sizes up the pair. "Done with your business?" Phillip gives a small nod, expression flat. "You're wondering about the favor. I'll be brief. It's not often we have a family's permission for burials of this age. I'd like yours. Formal permission, to continue the dig, and study the contents. Not that we'd need it to continue, but to avoid any future issues regarding this site." She pauses, waiting for his answer.

<< She will have it, >> he tells Sky, << provided for one thing. When she finds the red amber bead... I want it. >>

Sky looks up at him finally and then back at the woman. "You have permission. There is a minor condition. There was a bead, in the amber necklace. It contains a butterfly wing within the amber. It was red. We would like it returned." She speaks softly and earnestly, but firmly, her accent a bit thicker for being so formal. Her thoughts inquire as to if she asked correctly. He gives a small nod of confirmation, and the doctor gives the two of them yet another shrewd look.

It's a few moments before she speaks. Her lips pursed, she gives a smart nod, then holds up one finger. "We will examine and photograph it, should it be found, then it will be sent to you. I trust I can contact you through the same channels that sent you to me?"

Phillip pauses, then reaches into his pocket, plucking out a small white card, which he offers to the doctor. << Channels take too long. >> The card contains his address and e-mail. << Please tell her that I wish to be contacted _when_ it is found, and when it is ready to be shipped. >>

Sky relays quietly, "We should like to be contacted thus when it is found. The photography and examining will of course be fine, as the same channels that we have connected through will, I am sure, be happy to see any findings on it." She looks back evenly, implying firmly that any attempts to slide the object past without turning it over will be found out. "Miss Steward is very interested in your work here, and I'm sure will be intently involved. Perhaps her resources could be of aid to you." The last is mildly added, perhaps to soften the vague threat.

"That's acceptable. I'll have documents forwarded to you soon." Dr. Snow takes the card, placing it in one of the many pockets of her photographer's-style vest. "If there's nothing else...?" she asks expectantly. Phillip pauses, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry I can't see you out. Take care." With that, she turns back to her work, along with her young associate.

Reaching for Sky's hand, he turns in the direction of the parked roadster.

Giving the woman's back a cross look, Sky turns away and slips her hand into his to follow him out. Her eyes scan the ground as they leave, pensive and quiet. The maelstrom is momentarily quieted by her irritation at the lack of respect, but it remains there under the surface.

<< Very... pragmatic, >> he observes, the only thing he says on the matter as they make their way back to the car. There is still a faint tremble in his hand as he holds hers, releasing only when they finally reach the car and Sky goes to take her seat. He opens the door this time, sliding into his own. The key is placed in the ignition, but he doesn't start the car, instead leaning back on the seat, neck bent over the headrest so that he's staring up at the sky. Sky stares at her lap silently. Her thoughts, ever active, chase themselves in circles getting bigger and more fearsome until she forces them down and tries to look away from them. She is silent as though afraid to disturb him. He inhales deeply, then sighs, shading his eyes with one hand. << I fear I will not be sleeping well for a time. >> His other seeks for Sky's hand. << I still love her, keresik. I always will. And I love you. Thank you, for bearing this. >>

Her hand finds his and she squeezes her eyes shut. There are a few false starts as her emotions threaten to overwhelm her, then, << I could do no less. >>

He doesn't move for a few moments. Then, a faint, sad smile appears at the familiar sentence. Phillip nods, giving her hand a small squeeze before sliding his away. The car is started, and he pulls onto the asphault.

((A bit of Parz's current happenings, as played out over YIM. Yes, it's a bit disjointed. Yes, it assumes information that the characters involved already have. I've still decided not to alter it too much, aside from taking out player handles, the occasional stray quotation mark, and the OOC bits. Hopefully, it'll make things clearer to say that Phillip is Parzifal, Sky/Venwyn is Parz' fiancee, Mrs. Sutcliffe is Sky's mother, and Terrence is Parz' grandfather. The latter two are very affluent. Also, Parz and Sky share a psychic link, which is used a couple times in the course of this collaborative narrative. This was built by VenkaFusion as Sky/Venwyn and Mrs. Sutcliffe, Spectral_Weaver as Terrence Astor, and myself as Parzifal/Phillip. The setting... Parz and Venwyn meet their respective in-laws.))

Mrs. Sutcliffe, resplendant in her slightly garish and overly coifed clothing and makeup, claps her hands and gives a nod to one of the waitstaff. The asian woman bows her head and moves to take Venwyn's bag. Sky refuses silently, giving the woman a kind smile. Her mother looks a bit exasperated, but shrugs, saying only, "Oh, Venwyn, you little [censored]!" She laughs. "You didn't tell me your fiance's family was oh so affable!"

Terrence sits up straighter in the chair, brushing his moustache absently with one hand as he salutes Phillip and Sky with the teacup. "Ah, hello there, m'boy. I do hope you'll forgive me, but I thought I should come down and introduce myself to your future in-laws..." He smiles, taking a sip of the tea. "It is good to see you again, Phillip...." Somehow, he manages to exude calm and authority, though he does give a tiny twitch at hearing Sky being called a '[censored]'.

Phillip, for his part, carefully applies a smile to his face, although it doesn't get anywhere near his eyes. "Mrs. Sutcliffe. It is good to meet you. Grandfather." He sketches a small bow from the waist, polite, but stiff.

Sky, for her part, looks near petrified, and has nowhere near the experience hiding it. She stiffens, blinking a bit at the assembled, and finally manages quietly, "Mother."

Miss Sutcliffe rolls her eyes again. "Oh, come sit down, Venwyn. You look a mess. I wish you'd stop letting yourself go, though the natural look does suit her, doesn't it, Phillip?"

"Ehm... aye. It does suit her," he replies diplomatically, giving Sky's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Terrence, in his immaculate suit, keeps his face carefully composed, smiling as he rises and bows formally to Sky and Phillip. "Miss Sky, is it not? It's my very good pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. And if I may be so bold as to say so... My grandson has made a fine choice." There's a light glint in his eye as he says it, a spark of joie de vivre.

Sky's palm is slick with fear and nerves. She slowly moves over to a chair, stiff and almost as though on automatic. She slips into the seat. The other open seat is... Across from her, with Miss Sutcliffe and Terrance bordering them. Her demeanor goes very quiet, and she withdraws a bit, looking at the tea her mother pours.

The older woman speaks with a higher, more shrill version of Sky's voice. "Anyway, dear, we were just discussing hyphenation."

Terrence nods, slightly hesitant. "Indeed we were. It will be important in the future... Though I'm sure it can be worked out with a minimum of fuss..."

Phillip's small sigh has a hint of resignation in it as he takes the other empty seat. "Hyphenation," he repeats, rather dully, glancing between Grandfather and Mrs. Sutcliffe. "I see."

"Indeed!" Miss Sutcliffe says. "We did agree that Astor-Sutcliffe would be acceptable; after all, Venwyn is the wife, and it's very gracious of your grandfather to include our name." She speaks on as if not even considering their choices.
Sky stares at her tea, her breath very even and controlled.

Taking another sip of his tea, Terrence leans back in his chair, the very picture of calm. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, though... It seems everything's not as he'd prefer it. "The Sutcliffes are a fine, old, established family... Though, if the two of you would rather prefer Sutcliffe-Astor..." He shrugs, the wise old statesman willing to compromise.

Sparing a momentary hard glance at his grandfather, his eyes turn toward his own cup. "I like Anjou, actually," he states flatly, offering a bit of comfort to Sky over the link.

The breath catches in Sky's throat, and her back straightens a little, the picture of quietess now filling with defiance. Mrs. Sutcliffe blinks a few times. "Anjou? That's French..." She looks puzzled. "Why would...?"

Terrence goes rigid, his knuckles whitening as this fingers tighten on the cup. The affable, conciliatory air is gone like dew in the sun. "... Anjou?" His voice is soft and quiet, a sure sign of impending eruption. "... I would think carefully about that, Phillip. Very carefully indeed."

"I have," he replies quietly, calmly. In an explanatory tone, he continues, "Mom's maiden name, Mrs. Sutcliffe. Evelyn Anjou."

Sky almost shrinks again, but she looks at Phillip and remains, quietly looking at her tea cup and sitting up straighter.

Mrs. Sutcliffe looks between the assembled and blinks a few times. "Your mother's-" She glares at her daughter. "Are you daft as well as mad?" She seems to realize her outburst, and lets her hand fall lazily against her overly tanned bosom, laughing. "Children these days. All these new ideas, galloping wildly over tradition... What nonsense..."

With deliberate care, Terrence places the cup on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "Yes... It seems that I may have... misjudged, somewhat." He shoots Phillip a dark look.

Phillip arches an eyebrow at the look. "Mayhap. Esov kammenn tegynn." [I am in no way a toy.] His posture stiffens, barely perceptibly.

Mrs. Sutcliffe blinks at the Cornish, and tries to laugh that off as well, attempting to lighten the mood. "Well, I'm sure we can discuss that more later, when calmer heads will prevail. Let me see the ring, dear." She holds out a demanding hand, and Sky sighs, dully giving her left over for inspection. Mrs. Sutcliffe frowns. "What..." She glances at Terrence and back at Sky. "This isn't even a diamond, Venwyn." Her eyes rest on Phillip skeptically.

Terrence blinks at Phillip, eyes widening in surprise. Apparently, this was something he wasn't prepared for... And then his control actually slips for a moment, wincing openly at Mrs. Sutcliffe's words. He knows the providence of the ring, after all...

"Nay, it is not. It was Mom's engagement ring. She did not like diamonds, and Dad liked what sapphires symbolized. Loyalty, honor, faithfulness." Phillip explains this politely, even kindly. "Or so he told me, once."

"And he was quite correct, too," Terrence interjects, desperately trying to move the conversation out of this dangerous territory.

Mrs. Sutcliffe, ever irreverent, waves a hand. "I don't know what they're about, Mister Astor. Really." She looks at her daugher, who has in the meantime begun to fume quietly. "Wynnie, dear, we're going to have to have a talk about your standards. You can't let someone-"

There is a soft but firm crack as Sky sets down her tea cup, too hard. Very softly, deliberately, she murmurs, "That. Is. Enough." Her hands shake, eyes wide and staring at the table. They turn on her mother.

Her mother blinks, confused.

Terrence, again, winces openly. A remarkable lack of control for him, twice in so short a time.

Phillip sits quietly, hands clasped and fingers laced over his lap. Wisely, he says nothing, only watching mother and daughter, with another brief glance cast toward Terrence.

Sky nearly shakes on the brink of an explosion, fury clear in her eyes and posture. It softens as she spares a glance at Phillip, a bit of fear over the link at him seeing her angry, or being embarrassed by her. Her mother tries to laugh it off again. "Now, about the location..."

"Perhaps this is not the best time, Mrs. Sutcliffe..." It seems Terrence is trying to pour oil on the waters, though if anything, he looks deeply troubled by this development.

Soothing Sky over the link, he replies to Mrs. Sutcliffe mildly. "What about the location?"

"Pish tosh. It's in three weeks!" She waves a hand, clearly not as adept at reading social cues as Terrence. Or perhaps it has never occurred to her that her daughter might grow a spine. She glances at Phillip as Sky looks on, not trusting her own voice. "Now, dear boy, I know Venwyn wanted to get married in America, but really, there just isn't anything decent about wedding so far away from your families. We can provide a far, far better ceremony here than anything even available in America-your own baroush, for one, and a catered affair. It's silly to be so far away." She babbles on as if discussing a grand party of her own making.

Phillip's smile is again kind, even indulgent, with a hint of resolve. "But my family is there, you see. In America. And there will be a ball, after. Hosted by my sister."

Terrence's brow furrows, as even his instinctive politeness seems about to give way in response to Mrs. Sutcliffe's babbling... And then Phillip. Snap. "It is enough. And more than enough" The words are quiet, but spoken with finality. "Your family, whether you choose to accept it or not, is here. Now, I am prepared to go along with a great many things, up to and, yes, including having the wedding in America, if it will keep you happy. But this... bickering must end.

"Now. Let me make this perfectly clear. The one thing I will not relent on, is the name. If you choose to use the name of Anjou, you will have broken a tradition that goes back to the crusades and beyond. Our family will then die with me, and I will. Not. Let. That. Happen. Do you understand me, Phillip?" He's glaring, now, taking them all in.

Phillip eyes Terrence shrewdly, as if considering something. Something dangerous. An eyebrow lifts, though he says nothing for a moment.

Mrs. Sutcliffe turns on her own daughter, narrowing her eyes. "See what you've done? What you're risking? This is tradition older than you, dear girl, and you're risking it settling for less than your breeding dem-"

CRACK. The tea cup shatters in Sky's hand, the pieces digging into her palm. Sky stands. "STOP IT." She actually raises her voice, though it lowers to an angry hiss of hurt and rage. "All my life you have taught me that I am worth only the name a man will give me... Phillip loves me, mother! He loves me! Which is more than I can say for the union that misbegot me! IF IT DID! Which you tell me you doubt!" She spares a glance for her father, too angry to stop. "NONE of you matter one spare bit in the face of that!"

"Keresik." Phillip speaks that one word, quietly, bowing his head a little.

Worried, and suddenly unsteady, she steps back a pace, looking at Phillip in apology. Her mother sits silently, blinking, stunned, and her father swirls his cognac.

"Hwytha, keresik. Omdhiserri. Esov omma." [Breathe, dear one. Calm down. I am here.] Phillip still sits placidly.

Terrence turns, slowly, towards Sky, speechless for a moment. Complete silence reigns. "I see. That is the way of it, then, is it?" With deliberate care, he gets to his feet, fixing Sky with his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is calm, collected. "My girl, I know my grandson loves you. This is not about whether or not he cares for you. It is not even about station. It is about family." His gaze turns on Phillip. "If she truly means so much to you, Phillip, as I think she does... You will take the Astor name. For her sake, as well as your own. It will ensure that you will live in peace and plenty, and most importantly... You will be rid of my nagging." He smiles without mirth. "This is about you,... grandson. Don't try to tell me it isn't. Take the name, and all your troubles will be over. It is that simple. That easy." He glances at Sky. "And it would be for the sake of your lovely bride to be..."

"About which part of me, Grandfather?" Phillip quirks a small, humorless grin. "And I would say it is as much about Ebren as it is about me."

Frantically, she translates in the back of her mind and relaxes. She moves around the table behind her mother, touching Phillip's shoulder. Her mother still looks stunned and silent, and her father... Oddly... A little proud. He narrows his eyes at Terrence slowly as the conversation develops.

Terrence grits his teeth, remaining calm by the narrowest margin. "Don't try to doge this responsibility, grandson. Whether you choose to admit it or not, you are still of /my blood/, and this decision is /yours/."

"And that blood would have died in Astoria, had there been no intervention." Phillip still skirts the matter of the intervention's identity, still unwilling to reveal it to the Sutcliffes yet. Phillip's hand cups over Sky's, comfortingly.

"It didn't!" There's a real snap of anger in Terrence's voice now. "Do you hate me that much, grandson? Do you really loathe me deeply enough to toss away everything that our, no, /your/ family's built for over a millennium?!" His voice gains strength and volume. "God's wounds, man, have you no /respect/!?"

Her mother and father seem too grounded in 'normal' to ask about the intervention. Her mother begins to blink quickly, looking away. With a few paces, her husband offers his drink. She finishes it in a long pull and holds the glass to her lips, listening to the argument. Sky winces at the outburst, but doesn't back down.

Inclining his head, Phillip admits, "Aye. You are correct. It did not die. And I do not hate you. Nor do I love you. Or have any feelings of any kind, save for suspicion, which you have done little to allay. And as for what my family has built... *I* am what my family has built. Both parts of it. Both bloodlines. One of which you had no respect for." His chin tilts up slightly.

Sky's hand squeezes his shoulder. The other begins to drip unnoticed, red soaking into her pantleg.

"That is in the past, grandson. This is now, here, and you have to decide. By some stroke of luck you have found a gi... A /woman/ who loves you, and whom you love." The glance which he gives Sky holds more than a touch of ... respect, maybe? "I am more than willing, eager, in fact, to give my blessings... All I ask for is that you acknowledge your heritage. Am I truly being that unreasonable!?"

Phillip's eyes flick toward Sky. "Keresik, you are bleeding." Then, back to Terrence, "Would it be unreasonable for you to admit you were wrong about Mom?"

Sky glances at her hand, thinks for a moment, and she weighs something. Her skin turns a faint green glow as the cut heals. Then it fades. She turns her attention back to the present.

"I..." Terrence's mouth works for a few seconds, but he doesn't say anything. His fists clench at his sides, as he draws himself up, straightening. ".. Do I regret what happened? Yes, I do, and I have told you as much, again and again..."

"I am not asking whether you regretted it, Grandfather," Phillip begins, softly. "I am asking whether you thought, even for a moment, that you were wrong." He squeezes Sky's hand again.

"Yes, I did. And I have. I've told you as much, but the past cannot be changed, however much you or I might want it." He stands straight as a pillar, the words being grated out. "I did what I thought was right for our family at the time, and I am not about to apologize for trying to keep our heritage alive. Was I wrong? Maybe. But that will not change anything."

Phillip pauses for a moment, then gives a small nod. "Again, you are right. The past cannot be changed. And it would seem that the end result of your stubborn pride was for the best. Dad still loved you. Never knowing you, I could never understand why."

Terrence returns the nod. "I assume you'll follow in your father's footsteps then?"

Sky looks down at her hand once more, then back up. Her mother chooses that moment to interject. "Ungrateful little... I'm cutting you off."

Blinking, Sky looks at her mother, incredulous. She almost laughs, and another conversation begins. "Mother, I have more net worth in my investments from money of my own making since I was fourteen than you do. So kindly, do not hold such things over my head. I do not care." The argument stops as quickly as it started, and Sky turns back to hear the end of what Terrence says.

"It would seem that I follow in your footsteps, Grandfather. In my own way, I am just as stubborn and prideful as you." Phillip looks at Terrence evenly. "As Dad was. Odd, that. We both, Dad and I, act on love. You act on tradition." He muses a moment, chewing his moustache. "Am I to think, mayhap, that you were made to choose between tradition and love, at some point?"

Sky spares a glance at Phillip, impressed.

A thin smile curls Terrence's lips. "That, grandson, is a different conversation entirely. Whatever choices I made were mine, and are not germane to this." He sighs, seeming to relax, if only to the degree that a steel bar can be said to be flexible. "Though I'll say this; Whatever else you may think, Phillip... You are an Astor, fully and completely. As was your father."

Sky's eyes look a little sad; at a chance lost, perhaps. Sky's mother stands, moving up the stairs with a shaking hand over her mouth. It... May just be theatrics, but the root of it is truly upset. The soft sobs are clearly vapors though. Her father sort of ignores it, accustomed to her antics by now, leaning against the bannister again with an empty glass and a dull look.

Phillip arches an eyebrow, inclinining his head again. "A conversation which I would very much like to have, someday." He sighs. "Aye. I am an Astor. Though not fully and completely. I am also an Anjou. And the son of Herzeloyde and Gahmuret. Will you acknowledge these, as well?"

Terrence sighs, slowly shaking his head in... bemusement? Sadness? "Phillip..." Very deliberately, he starts to move towards the door, since the hostess is leaving. "That I acknowledge you as my grandson should tell you all you need to know. If it does not, then I am afraid that you'll never understand." Taking a bowler-hat and an umbrella, he turns towards Sky's father, nodding politely. "We will speak later, I trust, master Sutcliffe?" Turning back to Phillip and Sky, he bows slightly. "And so, I believe, will we. I do not know if you will believe me or not, but whatever choice you make, you have my respect miss Sutcliffe. You will make Phillip a fine wife." He touches the brim of his hat and turns to leave.

Sky cannot help but relax a bit. Mister Sutcliffe gives a slight nod and follows his wife, murmuring to his daughter, "We'll call and work this all out, I'm sure." A sigh, and he disappears up the stairs, leaving them all but alone in the foyer of the giant house.

Before he slips away, Sky manages quietly, "I thank you for that, Mister Astor."

"I fear I understand all too well. And painfully," Phillip answers, under his voice, so faintly that Terrence may not hear it. Then, louder, "Dha weles, tasow-wynn." He shakes his head, and softly again, "Omvodhek." [Wilfull.] It is unclear, from his motions and tone, whether he is speaking of himself, or of Terrence, even over the link. Perhaps both.

Opening the door, Terrence smiles over his shoulder. "Terrence, please, miss Sutcliffe. After all... I will be your grandfather-in-law." Tipping his hat to them one final time, he strolls out to a waiting Rolls-Royce.

Sky blinks a few times as they are left alone, and murmurs a bit numbly, "I should get my things. We have a plane to catch."

Parzifal shuffled his mail as he entered his apartment, shoving the door closed with his foot. "Bill, bill, junk... when did I get on this mailing list? St. Francis of Assisi High School raffle..." He paused for a moment, musing. "Mayhap, I can spare ten dollars for my alma mater. Junk, magazine...."

The knight paused. Behind the magazine was a pale grey rag envelope, written in a small, precise hand to Adam Phillip Astor, with a very familiar return address. He stifled a groan. "Grandfather." Shaking his head, he slid a finger under the flap. Inside were two items: a letter on the same grey rag, and another, smaller envelope, this one cream linen-weave. Parzifal opened the letter first, and read it.

My dear grandson,

It is my hope this letter finds you in good spirits and health. In light of your twenty-fourth birthday on the twenty-sixth of this month, I have decided to send a gift to you that I believe will be of no small use when you finally take your place as head of the family, after my passing.

There is a young gentleman who has recently made residence in Paragon, Alexandre Ivanovich, whose birthday is also upcoming. Though he is nouveau riche, he has shown excellent taste and decorum in setting up his new abode. He has also shown great deference to me, inviting me to the celebration of his birth. However, I believe it would be better for you to attend in my stead, as he would be a more suitable acquaintance and contact for one of your age. You may find enclosed the invitation to this gathering... my birthday gift to you.

In addition, I have informed my chauffeur to make available any car of mine you wish to use. I know you have one of your own, but your little green Civic will not make the right impression. Proper clothing will also be provided, should you lack it, along with anything else you may require.

This is an excellent opportunity. You would do well to take advantage of it.

Happy birthday, Phillip.

With much affection, your Grandfather,
Terrence Astor

He stared at the letter for a minute longer, and re-read it. He looked at the invitation, then back at Grandfather's letter again. There was only one appropriate response, to his mind.

"D'oh!"

((Sorry this is so late. Work's been work, so again, written in haste with not much of an edit. ^_^ Also, apologies to any speakers of Cornish, if I have gotten the syntax incorrect here.))

His eye twitched.

Parzifal had been passing by the arena on his way home. Something… he knew not what… something told him to go inside. Placing his hand on the cool glass, he pushed the door open, and began to walk up the stairs.

On the platform above, the knight could see three figures, immediately recognizable. His brow furrowed. “Hello, Lady Krickette, Shin, Roy...”

It was then that he looked… really looked… at Roy. Normally, even though the man wore a robot body, there was always a spark of humanity there, in his eyes. That light was gone. The quiet susurrus of Roy’s ‘breathing’ was absent, as well. Part of his chest seemed to have… caved in, somehow.

“What happened? I tried getting a camera unit in there, but there was some kind of glitch.” Shinsektor’s voice seemed tight. Parzifal frowned. “Oh, hey Parz.”

He turned his attention to Lady Krickette. One arm was hugged protectively to her chest, and her hair was askew. As he watched, she braced herself with one foot, and yanked a katana from Roy. “.. I won,” she gasped.

Shin paused. “I think he’s done.”

“I keep my promises.”

Parzifal blinked, alarmed. “What has happened? Lady Krickette, are you all right?”

She did not seem to hear him. “This is ending -now-. I promised I'd do it."

Neither Parzifal nor Shin could respond for a moment. Then, the insectoid murmured, “Vera…” and reached for her shoulder.

The woman lunged forward. “Lady…” he implored softly. The katana stopped, quivering, the point of the blade poised above Roy’s abdomen.

The robot cried, eye-lights flaring to life, “You should have drove it in!” One massive hand reached for the blade, and without hesitation, pushed it through, up to the hilt. Krickette did not even have time to let go. The rending metal made a sickening squeal.

“Roy, wait…” Shin held up a hand.

“… Kricky… I…” There was an awful pause in Roy’s voice. “Geez… I… feel… Heheh… I feel like I’m bl-bleedin’… I… It had ta…

Parzifal stood paralyzed. “T-tag…” he stammered, hoping that someone might activate the hospital teleport device. The light that flared, dimmed, and died.

The knight heard Shin say, as if from a long way off, “… did it himself.”

He had seen battle often enough. He knew. There was nothing else he could do. His carefully cultivated concentration fleeing before the sorrow, he began, though stuttering, to pray. “Ave M-maria... G-gratia p-plenia...”

The couple continued to speak, though he heard none of it. His grief had isolated him, placed him in a cold, numbing place. Only the words existed. “D-dominus t-tecum...”

He thought of Bridget, poised on Roy’s boots, waltzing in Parzifal’s apartment to his Masami Okui CD, while he and the cats watched.

“B-benedicta t-tu in m-mulieribus...”

Roy offering to introduce the knight to his parents.

“Et b-benedictus f-fructus v-ventris t-tui, Iesus.”

Roy, chasing Billy around the park, laughing and shouting.

“S-sancta M-maria, M-mater D-dei...”

Roy trying to teach Parzifal how to flirt.

“Ora p-pro n-nobis p-peccatoribus...”

Another loud drawn-out screech barely registered in the knight’s mind. He swallowed. “N-nunc et in h-hora m-mortis n-nostrae. Amen.” Numb hands made the Sign of the Cross. He looked up, as the robot body of Roy slowly listed to one side, ringing hollowly as it hit the floor. Something in him sickened.

Watching from another place, Parzifal saw Krickette gently kiss Roy’s face. “Good night, big guy.”

The knight paused. “D-dyw g-genes, k-koweth.” He watched distantly the attempts made to minister to Roy. Parzifal may have said something else. He couldn’t remember. Nor could he hear anything said to him, really. Parzival then turned, and very slowly, and deliberately, walked out of the arena.

He stumbled on the steps, a sudden, severe headache flaring. It barely registered. All he could think was, “Dyw genes, koweth.”

God be with you, friend.

((Just wanted to say I'm having an immensely good time with this storyline, and reading the posts here. Looking forward to seeing how things end up!))

[ QUOTE ]

You must have trained too far then. Because you outlevel no contacts if you keep your security level low enough. In fact, your contacts will start giving you other contacts of their level range to move you along.

My peacebringers did just about every contact in King's Row and Atlas for instance. I was still getting "Kill 10 Hellion" missions at combat level 12.

[/ QUOTE ]

Actually, I didn't train at all. At one point, I was behind four levels in my training, precisely to try to keep accessing those contacts. Still didn't work. Once I surpassed the boundary in my combat level, even though I hadn't trained for several levels, she would not offer me missions.

[ QUOTE ]

You never need to get debt to keep contacts. Just don't train to level 10 (or 21, 26, etc) The contacts are based on your security level.

[/ QUOTE ]

I wish that were true. I tried it, once, and it didn't work. Outleveled my War Wall Defender badge contact. Apparently, it is based on combat level, not trained level. So, back to the debt sprees for me.