The Darkspear Tribe

[Tsya]

This is the (very long) result of an RP me and Maka started up a long time ago. It was at first based on the simple question: What if Maka had been more badly hurt at the punishment? What if he had lost his legs?
It was never meant to be canonical lore, or even part of the main story. When we started, we thought it had never happened in the "main" world at all. But as we kept playing things started happening, and characters appeared that we wanted to keep around. Things that had not previously made all that much sense started to be explained in this strange little RP, and it grew on us to the point where we decided that it had indeed happened.

We played the RP over msn, with Maka as the main character, telling me what he did, and me as the allmighty Gamemaster, telling him what everyone else and the world did. It might make it a less-than-optimal reading medium, but it works out very well, and believe me, one gets used to it.
Anyway, in the end it went all the way up to 53 pages of text, so maybe I can't post all of it here. I will start out by posting the beginning, and you guys can let me know if you want me to keep posting, making this an eventually very long thread, or start passing the word-file around over msn's and the like.

Also, I should warn about some strong language appearing. If you're really tiny and don't think you can handle it, stay away! ^_^


[EDIT: Now containing the word 'clusterfuck'!]

[Tsya]

Martin:
Maka was close to death, he could feel it. Damn, he hadn't felt this weak since that demon-battle in the Nether, when Moohah had... Moohah.. Fuck her.. Where the fuck was she now, huh? Promising faithfulness is easy when you're strong.. Not so cool to keep it up when there's nothing but a limp piece of flesh left.. Fuck her. He didn't need her. He didn't need anyone. Fuck them. If only his legs would respond, he could at least crawl to that copse of trees. Fuck.. He couldn't even crawl.. Dragging himself along, still bleeding, still broken, every movement and breath shooting stabbing pain through him, he finally reached the copse. He collapsed under the palm boughs, sinking into a semi-catatonia. He was vaguely aware of the stinging of flies settling on his rent back. Anthia.. Tsya.. Heh. Wonder when they'll show up to finish me off...
Jenny:
A few hours pass, and so do the villagers. The tribe scatters, some standing to stare, some staying to spit on the punished troll before leaving. After a while he gets at least his peace, and night falls. As it does, a shape hurries forwards, and a hand is rested gently against his shoulder. A female voice whispers. "Maka.. Maka, wake up."
Martin:
Slowly coming to at the sound of the voice, his eyes blink a few times, slowly, as the blood from the whip-cut in his forehead has almost glued them shut. The pain hits him, throbbing, his back aflame. He makes a few small, unintelligible sounds, obviously delirious.
Jenny:
He can feel cool water running over his face and into his mouth, and something wipes the blood away from his eyes. "I'm sorry, Maka... I can't stay. They.. they're watching me. They're speaking of... of taints." The female stops speaking for a moment, and more water drizzle across his back. Something is put into his hand, and strong fingers close his around a small parcel. "Here. Keep chewing this. It's not much, but... damnit! I just... I can't... Oh, fuck it." The hands leave him, and feet pad off into the darkness again.
Martin:
He lies there for some time, occasionally whimpering and growling at fevered delusions rampaging through his mind. As the morning dawns, the sun starts baking the wretched troll, and he wakes enough to drag himself further into the shading boughs. He notices something in his hand, and slowly, ponderously opens it, peering at the parcel with the intense concentration of someone not completely present. After some time of intense deliberation on the subject, a faint memory of Tsya's nervous administrations dawns vaguely. He closes his hands on the parcel again, and a few tears run down his cheek before he sinks back down into unconciousness.
Jenny:
When he wakes up, it's night time again. He can hear flies buzzing around him, and the pain is still horrid, but the fever is slightly better. As he looks around, he finds scraps of food, dry bread, half-eaten fruits, lying around him. Probably thrown there. The parcel is still in his hand, and he recognises the sweet scent that comes out from it. Peacebloom, one of the simplest painkillers there is.
Martin:
He grits his teeth against the pain and opens the parcel with trembling hands. Taking a few sprigs, he pops them in his mouth and chews slowly, ponderously, mixing it with lots of spit to have it work as fast as possible. After a while, the pain dampens to something bearable, something closer to what he is used to. Peering around him with bleary, bloodshot eyes, he sneers at the foodscraps thrown to him. Fuck them. He may be weak now, but damned if he'll take pity scraps from the people of this wretched, fucking hole of a place. Nothing would give them more satisfaction than seeing the food be gone come morning.. "Fuck them.. I've lived leanly before.." He sinks back, the moment of rage having sapped what little energy he had. Absently, he takes another small sprig of the peacebloom and chews it carefully, slipping into a vacant state of mind.
Jenny:
Morning comes, and sunlight with it. He has by now found a spot where he at least does not have to move, but his body aches, his wounds seem to sting worse by the hour, and the fever is returning. The heat of the day weigh heavily on his mind, and the peacebloom quickly runs out. Hunger steps into its place. Hunger and horrible thirst.
Martin:
He looks around for some semblance of available water. Fallen coconuts, dew, something. Hunger he has suffered before. It's the thirst that's the killer.
Jenny:
There is an orange within reach, juice and meat half smashed out against a rock.
Martin:
Gritting his teeth, he peers around for onlookers. In a moment he sees as safe, he snatches the orange, sucking the juice and meat out of it ravenously. The thirst momentarily sated, he leans his side gingerly against a palm trunk. Now, he waits. For something. A sign that Dambala hasn't left him behind as well.
Jenny:
Some time passes, until the heat of noon. Then he senses the strangest feeling, through the pain. Someone is watching him. Someone is staring.
When he lifts his face, searching around for the source, he spots a blue-green mane atop a strong, tall body, next to one of the huts nearby. Tsya is watching him silently, a hatchet slung over her shoulder.
Martin:
He looks directly at her, making it clear that he is aware of her.
He nods his head at her, mostly because he is rather limited in how much his body will allow him, and because he does not know in what errand she is there.
Jenny:
She keeps watching him for a short while, and the distance makes her face hard to make out. After a couple of seconds there is a shout from further away, and her head whips that way. Then she hurries off without a second glance at Maka.
Martin:
He sinks down, partly in relief that she is not there to see him this pathetic, partly in relief that she was obviously not there to use that hatchet on him, and partly in despair for the same two reasons.
Jenny:
And yet another day passes. The hunger returns, with the day and the consciousness. There are still scraps scattered around him, but many of them are turning spoiled and dry.
Martin:
He sits up after a while. Deciding this is not a place to stay, he pokes his legs, growling to himself as nothing is felt. He tries lifting them, moving them, wiggling a toe, anything. Nothing.. He sinks back against the palm, sneering, shuddering in mixed rage and despair.
Jenny:
The sun drags itself across the sky, and the thirst and hunger become worse. His wounds make it even worse, and even them refuse to close. Without food or water even his regeneration won't work as it should, and his wounds are filthy. There are villagers around, but without food or water he won't live for long.
Martin:
After a short while of indulged self-pity, he snarls viciously to himself. He's Makal'zuun Caang'Obeah, fuck it! He's not going to die from hunger and thirst like some damn Vale-lost pinkskin! He peers out from the foliage, looking for a crab, a scorpid, anything he can get some meat and fluid from.
Jenny:
Most animals stay away from the village, as a matter of survival. Except for the trees next to him, and the flies buzzing around him, there is nothing.
Martin:
He'll be damned if he's going to start eating thrown scraps, and he'll be twice-damned if he's going to beg. He can stay, beg and live with the shame. Or... Gritting his teeth, he starts dragging himself down towards the Darkspear strand. Where there is water, there is life, and where there is life there is food.
Jenny:
As he begins to move, the wounds all across his back split open, and he feels the blood trickle down his back, where the sensation suddenly disappears. Colors and lights flash across his eyes.
Martin:
He reels at the sensation, and confusion overwhelms him, sending him face first into the sand.
Jenny:
And once again, he doesn't wake until the sun sets. This time, it is footsteps once again that stirs him, but not as sure of foot as Tsyas, or discreet and soft as Anthias. They are irregular, with one foot dragging, and a gnarled staff sets itself in the sand by his face.
Martin:
Maka tilts his head up, peering along the shaft of the staff and the wielder.
Jenny:
Above him stands a bent figure, leaning against a staff adorned with bones and beads and feathers, little trinkets and dolls. The face peering at him is old, with tusks yellow and worn, and tattoos peeking out behind smeared paint, rituals old enough to be done out of habit rather than a specific reason. Only a few strands of hair are still left on the trolls head, and his garments almost seem as old and dusty as him. Maka rememberes him, as a priest too old to be of use but too reverend to be cast out. The staff is tapped against Makas shoulder once or twice, and misty, near-blind eyes peer down at him. "Demon-boy..?" a hoarse voice comes out together with a breath of rotten teeth and smoked drugs.
Martin:
Maka sneers.
"No more, old one. What do you want?"
Jenny:
A waterpouch hits the sand next to Makas head, and just after it a hunk of bread. "Words, boy." The old troll leans on his staff, sucking on a hollow tooth. "Words, at first."
Martin:
He looks hungrily at the waterskin and bread, but shakes his head angrily, scowling up at the old priest. "I don't need your damn alms, old one.."
Jenny:
The priest chuckles, something that very soon turns into a hacking cough. He takes a step back, and agonisingly slowly sits down into the shade, leaning against a tree a few feet away from Makal'zuun. "And neither I yours..." He wheezes for a few seconds, as if catching his breath, and then continues. "I don't give things freely, boy. Young trolls today.. hmpf. Know nothing of the ways..." He coughs a few times again, shaking his head. "No... I buy. I trade. It is the way of things. You tell me what I want to know for the water and the bread."
Martin:
He hesitates for a fem moments before nodding once and taking the water. He washes his throat, eats the bread hastily and washes it down with some more water. He forces himself to stop, to conserve some of the water. After a few moments of catching himself, he looks up at the priest. "Talk then."
Jenny:
The old one had been staring out into the air, muttering to himself and gently bobbing his head up and down. He doesn't seem completely present, at least not until Maka finishes and speaks up. "Tell me... do you read, boy? Do you write?" He peers at him.
Martin:
"Yes."
Jenny:
Another string of coughing. Then a thick scroll is tossed into the sand with a weak, shaking hand. "Read me this then... and I shall return in the morning."
Martin:
He takes the scroll and unrolls it awkwardly, peering at it.
Jenny:
It appears to be a writing of old songs and rituals, parts of things that many worshippers of the Loas know by heart. Some of them are foot-long verses Maka does not recognise, but others are just simple prayers.
Martin:
He reads them out to the old priest, nodding in recognition some times, stumbling over strange pronounciations at other places.
Jenny:
The troll mutters along to Makas words, sometimes just listening, and his face wincing and nodding enthusiastically as memory reinserts itself. Now and then he curses, muttering about something completely different for a while, but then returns to the matters at hand.
Martin:
Finishing up the scroll, he nods reverently a few times before rolling it back up and holding it out for the priest.
Jenny:
He doesn't take it at once, but eventually reaches out with a shaking old hand to take it, carefully putting it away inside his robes. "Tell me, demon-boy..." he croaks, an enigmatic little smile on his face. "If I return in the morning... Will you still be here? Will you be resting in Samedis arms..?"
Martin:
Maka sneers at the nickname.
"My name, old one, is Makal'zuun. And I'm not going anywhere. Mueh'Zala is not gathering me yet."
Jenny:
The old one cackles, or coughs, and gets to his feet with the aid of his staff. "Good... good..." Another small parcel is thrown to the sand next to him. "But sometimes, Chem'Jin finds, the Loas need a little help in keeping their young..." A chuckle escapes him as he shuffles off, darkness taking him.

[Tsya]

And that'd be the beginning.
Also, it is 3.5 pages out of 53, so it might be hard to post everything here. But if you're curious to know what happens to Maka, just lemme know and I'll see about getting you the story.

[Zukkann]

gif all!!!11oneoneleven

[Tsya]

Martin:
A few moments later, Maka is rifling through the contents of the parcel, only very slightly curious about the nature of the visit from the ancient priest.
Jenny:
Inside the parcel are a couple of potions, and what seems to be a paste of sorts. It reeks worse than a rotten crab, and it looks like a mix between slop and shit. The potions are vaguely recogniseable as medicine.
Martin:
He grits his teeth together and starts applying the stinking paste to the wounds he can reach. Even if he can only reach about half his back, it is better than nothing. He uncorks one of the potions and downs it quickly, biting down the taste. He allows himself a small sip of water and lies down again, shuddering slightly.
Jenny:
At first, the paste blaze in his wounds with renewed pain, but after only a short while, it is reduced to a dull aching, and even if the potion is foul his sleep comes more easily this night. So do his dreams, and even if they are disturbing, there is less feverish qualities to them. As he wakes up, his body is aching even worse from stiffness, and his mouth is as dry as the sands beneath him.
Martin:
He silently thanks the Loas for remembering to save some water the day before, and uncorks the waterskin, pouring some of the remaining water into his parched mouth. Though flat and warm, it refreshes him immensely. He leans up on an elbow, taking in the surroundings.
Jenny:
The village of Sen'Jin is waking up, and fishers are moving towards the sea, hunters towards the land and adventurers are already moving among the huts. Some stop to stare, and passing guards sneer and spit. However, the most disturbing thing in his view is his own body. Most of it is covered in blood and grime, and festering boils of puss have spread on his back. His legs are limp and useless, just like the day before.
Martin:
He growls at the passing guards, and start dragging himself towards the water. He has gotten sand and filth in his wounds, and that is the most important thing right now, to get it washed out. His legs, while a big problem, is less of an immediate emergency than the infections he is going to get if he does not clean himself.
Jenny:
He manages to drag himself all the way down towards the water, even if it is one of the hardest distance he has ever crossed. The dry earth and sand give little to pull himself forwards on, but eventually he thrusts his arms in salt water.
Martin:
He sighs with pleasure as he drags himself into the water. The salt water stings his wounds to the almost unbearable, but he welcomes it as it rinses the filth and sand away. After a small while, he drags himself back out. lying to dry on the moist sand right over the incoming waves.
Jenny:
Makal'zuun gets a small moment of peace, away from the villagers, and the surf gently washing over him.
Martin:
He lies there, enjoying the calm.
Jenny:
Time passes, and the hunger and thirst returns. He can either try to catch one of the fast-moving sand crabs, or make his way back up towards the village, for more scraps and charity.
Martin:
What the hell happens now.. If his legs are fucked, he can just as well die. Living is well and good, but living on charity, as a cripple? Hell no.. For now, though, he needs some sustenance, and the little water left in the waterskin won't keep him going.. He pulls his scalping knife from its hip sheath and looks around for some sort of prey. The scuttling crabs are fast, but if he can get one close enough, he can lob a knife and hope he's strong enough to pierce the shell.
Jenny:
At first the crabs appear to have been spooked by his presence, but as he lies still they begin to come closer, lured by the blood he's spread in the water.
Martin:
He freezes still, quite some years of hunter experience lending some help. Lying limply, quietly observing, he waits until one of the crabs are within good reach of a hastily lobbed knife. Gritting his teeth, knowing his back will hurt like fuck-all, he explodes into action, letting the knife fly from his fingers in as smooth an action as he can manage, aimed at the "face" of the crab.
Jenny:
The dagger hits expertly, years of being a hunter not disappearing because the use of his legs to. The crab twitches, and shudders, staggering off towards the waterline.
Martin:
"Like hell are you getting away now, you bastard.."
He pulls himself after it, putting what strength he has left into the chase.
Jenny:
Focusing on the dying animal, he drags himself across the sands, and just as he closes in, just as the creature reaches the surf, a spear comes down from above, skewering it. Makal'zuun looks up into the sneering face of Mar’dembe, one of the village guards. "The great hunter.." he spits, lifting the dead crab.
Martin:
"A greater hunter than you ever were.. Mar." He willfully leaves the suffix out, seeing no reason to honour the rat bastard with using it.
"What did you ever take down anyway? I remember you struggling with that panther cub like it was a fully grown son of Bagh’Thera himself" He sneers at the guard.
"Only when my legs don't work do you have the balls to scorn me, you son of a witless Skullsplitter..."
Jenny:
Makal'zuun gets a kick in the face for his insults, and the guardsman tosses the remains of the crab, and the dagger in its head, into the sea. "I took down things enough to be a guard, to honor the village. You just took down your own strength, scum."
Martin:
Maka reels at the kick, spitting out a gob of blood.
"You took down a few murlocs with lucky throws of your wobbly splintery spears, you piece of shit. So you get to walk around this place, warding against stray scorpids. Real good, yeah. Fuck off and leave me alone until you have something real to brag about!"
Jenny:
He scowls, kicking some sand onto Makas dormant body. "I'll be back when the fish are nipping at your useless flesh, you demon-slave! I got years to live in happyness, you end here, in a death so pathetic people will laugh at your memory." He turns to walk off back towards the village.
Martin:
"I'm not dead yet.. And I'll keep you in mind, cubslayer."
He snarls the last word after the retreating figure.
Jenny:
The warrior doesn't answer, but just retreats back to do what duty he has. And yet again, Maka is alone with his hunger and his thirst, and no weapons to kill another crab.
Martin:
Maka looks around for anything that can even remotely remind him of a weapon. A rock, a piece of driftwood, anything. He keeps the thought of a dive in mind, but decides to postpone it until it is dive or die.
Jenny:
There are scattered sticks and stones around, but nothing that could be made into a weapon without a huge effort, something he is too tired for. At least lying here in the hot son.
Martin:
He sighs and decides to take his chances. There's really nothing much more left for him. He starts dragging himself towards the surf again, growling a prayer to Shirvallah for strength.
Jenny:
As he drags himself headfirst into the water, and it begins to wash over his head, he realises just how heavy his body is...
Martin:
He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer to Dambala, full well knowing that this might be the last one he has a chance to utter. He pulls himself further into the water, feeling a slight wave of relief as the water lightens the weight of his useless legs.
Jenny:
At first, the weight lessens, and for a few moments his body glides easily through the salt waters. Floating is fine, but as long as he has to move, upwards, forwards, the toll on his arms is twice as great as it normally is.
Martin:
He ducks his head under briefly, looking for the crab.
Jenny:
He can see many shapes under the water, of seaweed and corals and fish. Some could be his dead crab, or a living one, or just a shadow.
Martin:
He curses vilely under his breath, popping up over the water again. "FUCK!" He starts to move back towards land, eventually pulling himself up along the sand. He pops his waterskin and takes a tiny sip. "Now the fuck what..."
Jenny:
There is noone apart from the sand fleas to answer his question, that and the pounding sun. It's getting past noon by now, and it's getting really warm, lying in the sand.
Martin:
He starts dragging himself towards the copse of palms again, cursing under his breath for every foot of movement. He collapses in under the shading boughs.
"Lukou... Please.. Aid me.. Look down from Zul and aid me.. please.." He mutters, shuddering into a restless stupor.
Jenny:
He is awoken at dusk by something poking his shoulder. It's a staff.
Martin:
He opens his bleary eyes, peering up at the old priest.
Jenny:
The priest drops another waterpouch and a small sack in the sand. The sack smells of fruit and dried meat. "Been moving, have we...?" he wheezes.
Martin:
Maka chuckles humourlessly. "Out hunting, you know.. What can I do for you today?"
Jenny:
"Hunting..." the priest mutters, slowly making his way over to the spot in the shade where he had sat last night. He grunts in pain as he leans back and pulls his legs up towards him. "Hunting... hmpf. Anything done with no legs I would not call hunting. Youth of today..." he mutters irritably to himself, and shakes his head sadly.
Martin:
"Well, one does what one can with what one has..."
Jenny:
"Huh?!" the old one says, peering at the troll. The priests chipped ears twitch.
Martin:
"I say, one does what one can with what one has. My legs don't work, but I have to eat. So I do what I can."
Jenny:
"And have you?" the old one retorts.
Martin:
"I had prey, yes. It was taken by someone with usable legs. So I am left without prey, and without knife." Maka shrugs and downs the last water from his old waterskin.
Jenny:
The old one reaches out to smack him over the arm with his rattling staff. "But you have not eaten, boy! And that is the thing a hunter strives for, is it not?"
Martin:
"Of course it is! I do not crawl around the beach like an idiot for the fun of being ridiculed by passing fools!"
Jenny:
He cackles, waggling a finger. "Then is a hunter who does not eat when hunting, truly a hunter still?"
Martin:
"The hunt is what defines the hunter, old one, not the prey he brings. If it was not, we would not have many hunters in this tribe." Maka narrows his eyes. "Are you here for any other reason than to mock my ability to hunt, old one?"
Jenny:
The priest, who had named himself Chem'Jin, cackles at this, a laughter that soon turns into a hacking cough. "Proud, I see.. Very proud.." He coughs again, shaking his head and frowning. "Never ask for the reasons of an old troll, boy! He has reasons.. always reasons.. And I do not mock. Oh, no..." He peers at Makal'zuun. "I merely say that a hunter that cannot hunt.. must become something else."
Martin:
"Before I start concerning myself with my future, I'll be trying to take care of my present, old one. For now, I need to survive until I find out if my legs are going to improve or not."
Jenny:
Chem'jin shakes his head. "They won't."
Martin:
Maka sneers. "Then I might as well toss myself in the ocean. Without my legs I'll be begging scraps to survive. And that is not a life."
Jenny:
The priest snickers, tutting and reaching out with his staff to poke at Makas head with it. "And because you cannot use your legs you have to stop using this?" He sighs, sucking on a tooth again. "Young trolls... they never learn, nor listen..." he mutters.
[Martin:
Maka snarls as the staff bonks him.
"My head works fine, old one. But a life of crawling around on the ground is not something I see anything good in"
Jenny:
"I didn't say your head wasn't working. I said you weren't using it." He sneers, and coughs, and spits out a gob of something you really don't want to know any more about.
Martin:
"Enlighten me then, old one. How do I lead a life worth living while crawling like a maggot on the ground?"
Jenny:
The old one shrugs, leaning back against the tree. "You tell me. Hunter." Then he closes his eyes and smacks his tongue. "You young people know everything worth knowing already, don't you? Damn youngsters.."
Martin:
Maka spits on the ground.
"I freely admit to not knowing a thing about what you are on about. Instead of moaning about my ignorance, why don't you enlighten me?"
Jenny:
"Hmpf. Always so difficult..." The old one sighs, drawing in the sands with his staff. "He said you'd be DIFFICULT..."
Martin:
Maka peers at the priest, waiting.
Jenny:
He grumbles about it for a while, and spits on the ground, chews on a small stick, and draws a complex pattern in the sand before continuing. "I'm growing old, boy... And my eyes are dim." There is a sigh, and the old ones voice is no longer as harsh as it was. "Ogoun grows restless.. as do the others." He mutters something about impatience in the Loas, not like when HE was young, oh no...
Martin:
"Dambala does not often speak. He seems.. preoccupied.. Do you know anything about this, old one?" Maka peers at Chen'Jin searchingly.
Jenny:
The priest mutters something irritably. "Dambala... That one has his own reasons for things. Not for troll to second-guess the Loas." He peers at Maka, searchingly.
Martin:
"As you say. What is it you are getting to, old one? You mention Ogoun and the Loas. Why are you using your time on broken scum?" Maka peers back at Chem'Jin shrewdly.
Jenny:
He swiftly whacks Maka with his staff, muttering irritably. "Listen when I speak to you, boy! Don't interrupt me..." He grumbles a bit, and is then silence for a few seconds, collecting his thoughts. "I sense the work of Mama Iblis on you... Your legs." He pokes them with his staff. "They are lost to you for crimes commited. She has taken the fruits of the land from your hands."
Martin:
Maka growls as the staff connects, instinctively gathering a miasma of shadow around his hand before gathering his wits, dismissing the budding curse, letting the power dissipate. He listens with narrowed eyes, absentmindedly opening the parcel of food and picking out some morsels, chewing them slowly.
Jenny:
"You won't walk, boy." The priest wheezes, letting out another barrage of coughs. "But you have your head. And your head you will use.Hmm?"
Martin:
"I am not doing anything until you are telling me what this is about, old one."
Jenny:
He coughs again, spitting up some more foul saliva. "Impatient.. Hmpf. If he had -listened-, he would have understood by now. Yes, he would have..." He nods to himself, and keeps muttering.
Martin:
"Then assume I am too daft to read into your vague hints, old one"
Jenny:
Old one cackles at this, and nods, coughs hacking their way in advance of his words. "Maybe so!" he wheezes. "But noo... Scum you may be, but no worth to the tribe does not mean no worth to anyone. Hmm?"
Martin:
"True. I am most certainly of use to myself, if noone else. Now, will you stop toeing around the skullpile and get to your point? I may not be going anywhere soon, but I -am- impatient, as you say."
Jenny:
The priest sighs, scratching a slightly hairy chin. "As I said, then... Hrm. *cough* My eyes are dim. My hands shake. My ears are screaming at my head, and sometimes the Loas are the only ones who make sense here.. Hmpf... cursed youngsters, thinking nothing of the elders..." He clears his throat. "So, you are coming with me, boy, and you can be my eyes, and my hands." He nods to himself, as if it is not a suggestion, but a prediction.
Martin:
"Right. Well, maybe I will. At the very moment my legs start working again."
Jenny:
Chem'jin cackles, and shakes his head. "They won't."
Martin:
"Then I'm not going anywhere."
Jenny:
"You went down to the water."
Martin:
"Yes. In my own interest. Why should I crawl along with you, disgracing myself even further, instead of crawling back to the water again and wait for Mueh'zalah?"
Jenny:
"You crawl where you will, youngster.." the old troll says, coughing a couple of times for exclamation. "Not my way, that. Just letting you know.. that I could use a pair of.. hrm.. strong young hands around."
Martin:
"Bah. No different than begging for scraps from the villagers."
Jenny:
The old trolls head snaps up, and a spark of rage flare up in the dim eyes. "Is that so..?" he hisses and clenches his staff. "Is my work useless, then?" he spits. "Is working for an old priest the same as begging?" He frowns, and seems very upset indeed. And somehow.. there is actually something rather intimidating about him.
Martin:
"I don't give a rat's ass about your work, priest! I've been looking out for myself all my life! Noone ever lent me a hand with anything, especially no priests! So if you're trying to wheedle my sense of tribe unity into this, you can forget it. I don't -have- any! You talk about your work, yet speak nothing of it! And you expect me to shit on what little I have left and crawl around you like a servant? Forget it!"
Maka is snarling this out, some dam of rage and frustration finally letting go.
Jenny:
"The tribe?" the priest snaps in return. "Fuck them. Fuck the snivelling little arselickers called shamans and the weak excuses for warriors! I know more of the Loas than you have ever smelled, and I offer a chance to take part of that, before I turn to Mueh'zala! Now, spit that in my face, that is the most anyone has ever offered crippled scum."
Martin:
Maka is a little taken aback at the retort, but grins at the old troll's tirade about the tribe.
"I hear you. And I like your offer. But I need my legs. Consider me in a bargaining position or not, but I need my legs. I am no priest that can sit and do his work. If I can not walk and run, I am nothing. It is in my blood, and I can no more live without it than I can without food and water. I do not question Mama Ibli, but I am judged for crimes I never committed of my own free will. That may be worth shit to you, to her, to anyone, but it matters in my eyes. And if I can not run, and hunt, I might as well not live. If you are so after someone willing to take more knowledge of the Loas, then help me."
Jenny:
Chem'Jin mutters to himself, shaking his head and wincing at some thought that opposes him. "I know of the demon business... Not pretty, but it takes a mind of a sort to welcome the demon in in the first place. Punishment is not only for the rest of the hearts of others, but to learn. And you, I take it, have learned a great deal.." He cackles slightly to himself, and begins once again to cough. "Hmm... Lukou is busy these days, and do not spend her time with old trolls like me..." He purses his lips thoughtfully. "But the Loas are plentiful, and the trolls are the favoured creatures of the Makers. Help..." He peers at Maka. "I don't know if I can give. But... then again, that's more than anyone else would give you."
Martin:
Maka shrugs. "In other words, the worst that can happen is that you can not restore my legs. Heh.." He snickers humourlessly.
"It's not like I have anything to lose.."
Jenny:
Chem'jin reels from another fit of coughing, something that eventually turns into a wheezing chuckle. "Nothing but your pride..." He shakes his head slightly, pondering. "My hut is outside the village, boy.. I think you know it. It's the one where noone goes, and where the vultures gather."
Martin:
Maka growls to himself and starts dragging himself along the sand and up towards the outskirts of the village, very carefully circumventing it, staying as far away from passing villagers, even though it is a longer distance and starts to exhaust him rather badly. Some pains are worse than other..

[Tsya]

Yet another part! *le gasp* What shall happen to our antihero?

[Tsya]

Jenny:
Chem'jin just watches him drag himself away, sitting still in the shadow for a while. Old people get excused a lot. It takes Maka some time, maybe even hours, to get to the hut, standing in the shade closer to the mountains, surrounded by a grove of trees. A small trickle of water run from the mountains down towards the sea, so the ground is moist and green, almost like the isles. The hut itself is old and gnarled, and the roof stands low. There are speared heads around the hut, shrunken into horrid versions of trolls, and their glass eyes staring blankly in all directions. As he gets closer, he can literally feel it, the voodoo, like a stench in the air. There are strange herbs growing under the trees, and bones are hanging in strange patterns from the branches.
Martin:
Maka grins as he feels the voodoo suffusing the area. He passes the hut and moves for the water, drinking greedily. He returns to rest some outside the hut, taking in the powerful aura.
Jenny:
As he lies in the shade, it's as if he can almost hear things. Whispers. Old conversations. And there is someone, or some thing, watching him here. It's really a rather unpleasant feeling. And suddenly he realises that one thing he does hear. It is the cries of a troll child. Coming from what appears to be a well half hidden among the bushes.
Martin:
Maka perks an ear towards the well. He growls silently to himself, swearing inside that this is some test put down by the old priest. Nevertheless, he crawls his way over to the well and calls out. "Hey! Child! Are you down there?"
Jenny:
He manages to pull himself up on the low wall around the well, and the cries echo up from below him. He sees nothing but darkness and smells nothing but the rotting, still water. The inside of the well is stone, and ranks and shrooms grow between the blocks. As he peers down, calling out, there is a faltering in the cries... and then they begin again. Echoing, strange... in some way not there. And suddenly there is something pulling at his head, something forcing him down the well with no hands, no ropes, with nothing but his own will. Something is pulling him into the darkness below, and he smells death down there. And he sees... something.
Martin:
Maka growls and pulls back as best as he can, snarling Dambala's name, calling him to bolster him
Jenny:
And he does feel strength, he does almost pull back, and something below stirs... He has a sudden feeling of sinking dread in his stomach, as if there is only a matter of seconds... When suddenly a hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulling him back and away from the well, turning him around on his back.
Martin:
He gasps involuntarily in surprise, cursing himself inside for letting someone sneak up on him. The gasp turns to a growl, and he looks up at the owner of the hand.
Jenny:
It's Chem'Jin, and he glances over Makas shoulder, at the now silent well. He scowls slightly, and then lets go, turning around to shuffle off towards his hut.
Martin:
Maka growls softly to himself and draws away from the well, making his way towards the hut again.
Jenny:
Chem'jin pulls open the door, and pauses. He turns around towards Maka for a moment, watching him. "When something here calls you... be certain that you know what it is saying before you answer."
Martin:
Maka narrows his eyes, but nods after a second. He moves himself over to the door and awaits an invite
Jenny:
The old troll chuffles inside, seating himself next to a smouldering fire and tossing some wood into it. "Come in. Here. Sit." He motions to a pile of furs that appear to have been set out next to the fire. As Maka moves into the hut he crawls across a line carved into the floor, together with painted colors and strange symbols. Inside looks, and feels, even worse than the outside. It looks like every younglings worst stories about a witchdoctors hut, a voodoomasters den. Birds claws, skulls and shrunken heads, necklaces made from fingers and toes, even books and potions. It is dark, and the scent of drugs and herbs and rot hit Makas nostrils like a punch in the face.
Martin:
The smell notwithstanding, Maka smiles to himself as he looks around. Now THIS is as it should be, he thinks. He crawls over to the fur-pile and props himself up as well as he can
Jenny:
It's actually pretty comfortable, and the furs seem to have been put out for him to be able to lean against the wall, sitting. Chem'jin glances at him once, and then straightens out as best he can, which isn't very far. He shuffles off to sit down on a low chair, and opens a leather bag from his belt, rummaging in it a bit before pulling out a sprig of dried leaves. He tosses them into the fire, which is starting to catch on. They sputter and send a thick, sweet-smelling scent into the air. He takes a deep breath, and a faint smile creases his old face. "There are many things in this world most trolls only hear of, boy. Too many forget the old ways... and while they rever the loas, and thank for their good will... they have forgotten to fear their anger."
Martin:
Maka nods in agreement and breathes in the deep, sweet intoxicating aroma. "And that is my.. greatest problem with this tribe of troll excuses.."
Jenny:
As the smoke spreads, the old ones breathing seems to become easier, and while his voice is still cracked and harsh, it is not as out of breath as before. He nods, chuckling to himself. "And you think I invited you in only because you had no more choices in life? That I would have chosen another if I could? Heh, heh, heh..." He shakes his head, reaching up to lift down a small figure carved in bone, tapping its head. "The voodoo waits for no troll, and it demands respect."
Martin:
"I have no idea why you invited me, old one.." Maka peers at Chem'Jin, then around the hut. "All I have heard is you wanting someone crawling around you to do your chores. Now, is there something else you have in store?" He narrows his eyes.
Jenny:
He peers at Maka, his misty eyes full of guile and thought. "You have much of the old ways in you, boy. I have lived longer than most trolls, longer than I or anyone ever thought... But to live forever, that I would never wish for. And this house must not be left empty." This last thing, he says with some conviction, and nods to himself.
Martin:
"How did you.. Hmm.. How did they accept this? They have forgotten and are fearing so much.." Maka looks around, still smiling at what he sees.
Jenny:
"You are assuming I asked for their permission." he states, simply.
Martin:
"No. I assume that they could have been fools and try to stop you. And as such, I am curious". Maka nods.
Jenny:
He shakes his head, slowly pulling out a piece of twine and wrapping it, together with a couple of blackened feathers, around the little bone statue. "Not yet. That Felicc is a clever one, even though she draws her strength from the spirits, and not the Loas." He sneers. "The spirits are powerful, I admit to that, and they work fast, with much flare and grand proofs of existance. The Loas..." he shakes his head, smacking his tongue with amused disapprovement. "They are patient, and they move in the pace of Loas, not living. The faith is needed."
Martin:
Maka sneers at the mention of Felicc's name, but listens to every word. "And the faith is weak, after the orcs came, bending Vol'Jin into this.. "debt of honour"..
Jenny:
Chem nods, and mutters something to himself. "The honor is important to a warrior, but trolls have ways much different from the orcs. I speak no ill of Vol'Jin, but he has given the orcs too much way over ours." He looks up at Maka, watching him intently. "And that is why the old ways and the voodoo must be preserved, beyond all other things. By those who understands it and fears it." He points a trembling finger at the hunter.
Martin:
Maka nods. "Though noone will listen to scum. Invalid scum even less."
Jenny:
He sneers at him, muttering irritably to himself. "They do not have to listen! YOU have to listen. And you have to know them well enough. They must see in you what they are leaving behind."
Martin:
Maka growls slightly. "All these assholes see is someone who has been possessed! And as such, all they will ever think is "Makal'zuun, the lurker, the rapist, the beast"! Don't you think I know these people?" He sighs deeply. "There is nothing I wish more than to return some sense of.. respect.. to this tribe.. I despise them, but I do not wish to see them fall from the Loas for ever.."
Jenny:
"So make them fear." he mutters, wheezing a slight cough. "Make them fear the Loas once more."
Martin:
"How? If I do anything to.. put more fear into these people, they'll kill me. And kill trolls I care about for knowing me."
Jenny:
Chem'jin stares at him for a couple of seconds, and then gets to his feet, muttering with even more irritation than before. He tosses the carved piece of bone aside, and bats some hollowed bones hanging from the rafters out of his face as he limps off to the other corner of the hut. "Not listening.." he mutters, rummaging in a small basket. "Useless, deaf pieces of shit... No respect.." and he returns, throwing a threadbare jacket at Maka, almost falling apart at the seams. "If you do not wish to delve in voodoo, then do other things." He takes a small pouch and tosses it after him, containing needle and thread. "I thought you had wits enough to listen, boy.. I guess I was wrong." He pushes the door open to step outside.
Martin:
"Try listening yourself, old one! I listen, but I hear nothing but things I already know! I will work freely with the voodoo, and love it, fear it and respect it! But for the very same reason I am crippled, I can not go out among the tribe and show them reasons to FEAR the Loas!" Maka snarls the last sentence
Jenny:
He stops, one hand on the door, and turns towards Maka, slowly. "If you had some thought in your head, and not just bitterness and self-pity, you would realise that not one of the things I would teach you could ever be mistaken for demon-work."
Martin:
"Consider the paranoia and blindness of these people, old one.. And that they already have their ideas about me..."
Jenny:
"Time works wonders, boy. As do I." And with this he shurt the door behind him, his shuffling, slow steps disappearing.


Martin:
Maka lies back in the furs and absently starts stitching the discarded shirts together as best he can. It's flimsy compared to the leather he normally works with, but it is something to do, if nothing else. He peers around the interior of the hut, studying it.
Jenny:
There are things here he recognises, and others he does not. Things he has only ever heard about and others he can't even guess. The thick smoke has dissapated slightly, but is still coming out of the fire. He is slowly realising how tired he is.
Martin:
He blinks his eyes a few times and wearily puts the nearly-finished shirt down. "Just going to close my eyes for a few seconds.." His eyes slide shut and he drifts away, dozing off.
Jenny:
If he has had strange dreams before, it's nothing like this. He dreams of Loas and ghosts and rituals, watching things happen he has only heard tell in stories, screams at the edge of his hearing. He hears snatches of conversation, as images of the village passes...
"I have him now, and there is no discussion." says Chem'jins hoarse voice.
"But the crime he committed.."
"And has been punished for.", the old one interrupts.
"Yes, has been punished for.. But he is not trusted by the tribe, and he is not worthy of being taught such things."
"Then who is?" retorts Chem'jin. "You, young ones, have not seen things that I have. You cannot know my reasons, or that of the Loas. He will be true to them, I will see to that."
There is more said, but Makas dream continues, before he can hear more. Spirits and ghosts, monsters and fears...
Martin:
Maka pops awake with a snarled gasp, looking around, near a frenzy. He has never.. feared a dream before, but this was.. beyond the trashy Deathweed images..
Jenny:
As he looks around, cold sweat covering his body, he spots Chem'jin, watching him. There is a thoughtful look on his face, and he is peering at a handful of bones laid out before him, runes and symbols covering them. He sweeps them up, and throws them down again, turning his attention to the pattern they make.
Martin:
Maka shakes off the fear, coming fully into the land of the waking. He sits up slowly, taking in Chem'Jin and his business.
Jenny:
The old one points at a bone lodged under another one. "See... the trickery points to the west... And it is covered by the tale." He lifts his hand again, scratching his chin and muttering to himself. "Dambala and Papa Legba... Mean anything to you, boy?"
Martin:
"Legba is.. know to me, yes.. Dambala is my... patron.."
Makas face is impassive.
Jenny:
"And here..." His finger moves towards other bones. "The light and peace is apart from the others, hiding its face. Guarded by the side of Shirvallah, turning its back to the world." He glances up at Maka. "And would you say this means something?"
Martin:
Maka shakes his head slightly. "I am not good with symbolism, old one.."
Jenny:
"Guess."
Martin:
"Hrmpf.. You mentioned Lukou being.. busy, away from this world? Is this relevant?"
Jenny:
He doesn't answer. "Go on."
Martin:
Maka snickers slightly. "Heh.. If I did not know better, I would say Shirvallah guards Lukou's bathing, and Legba and Dambala are sneaking about to catch a glimpse.." He sobers up. "But I honestly do not know, old one.. I have never learned to see signs in the bones. I have never had any.. formal teachings."
Jenny:
Chem'Jin laughs at this theory, and his coughing starts again. He beats at his chest, grinning largely and scooping up the bones. "Good answer..." he puts the bones away, and they rattle to a halt in his belt pouch. "I rarely use the bones for my own purposes, but they work well for others. It is not what they say that is the important part, but what you read into them." He leans forwards slightly, lowering his voice. "This, you see, is one of the greatest secrets of the voodoo doctor... Things that seem magical might not be. It is the faith in the bones that makes their predictions true. It is the fear in the curse that makes its effects horrid. Magic is very much real, young one, and it is to be feared, but much of it is smoke and noise."
Martin:
Maka grins now, at the witchdoctors talk of deceit and trickery.
"I like what I hear.. And I think I understand.. Or, am beginning to, at least."
Jenny:
He nods, but he answers as if he had read the others mind. And perhaps he did. "But this is not just about tricks and lies, boy. The power of Lukou, Shirvallah and of Samedi is just the same as the ones from Legba or Dambala. It is the hoodoo, the magic of the ages, older than arcanism or spirits, or the world itself. Sometimes, the bones do speak. The juju works its watching eyes, or its crippling curse. The fear does other things, works other magics, but it is as much a part of voodoo as the shaft and head of a spear. None can work without the other."
Martin:
Maka nods. "I see.. All in a balance, yes?" He wrinkles his brow in thought for a moment. "Old one.. I wonder.. Was I right to decline the spirit-hoodoo of the... spiritmaster? I know the Loas can be vengeful and jealous, so I did not want to chance anything.."
Jenny:
He ponders this, pursing his lips and scratching at a half-rotten tusk. "The spirits are our ancestors, Makal'zuun... They wish us often neither well nor harm, but the shamans sometimes twist their powers for their own purposes. Yes, they do ask for their help, but the spirits cannot always be expected to understand the reasons. The mind of a troll is his own damn business, if he wishes it so."
Martin:
Maka nods. "No matter.. I do not want strangers poking around inside my head anyway.. Especially not dead strangers.."
Jenny:
Chem coughs, but winces slightly. "Trust spirits, unless they are foul. Trust not the shamans, unless you want to."
Martin:
"There are very few Darkspears I trust further than I can throw them.. Much less their shamans."
Jenny:
"Then don't!" Chem snaps, apparently not in a mood to repeat himself at the moment. "Simply do not blame spirits for the use they are being put to." He mutters, clearly upset about this. "Damn irreverence.."
Martin:
Maka growls, but goes silent.
Jenny:
Chem'jin gets up on his feet, shuffling about and pulling out what seems to be pieces of food hanging from the rafters and put in different jars around the hut. Sometimes it looks like pure luck that keeps him from mistaking a dried hunk of crawler meat from a dried, sewn up human arm. He keeps muttering to himself. "They use the spirits as sources of power." Chem'jin mutters to himself, but loud enough for Maka to hear it. Probably by purpose. "And they hardly speak to them any more. They do not know the spirits they pray to."
Martin:
Maka sits peering around the hut, pretending to be sullen and insulted. His ears, however, are perked and attentive at Chen'jin
Jenny:
The old voodoo priest gathers some food, on two plates, and then walks to hand Maka one of them. "The trolls used to rever their dead, and their ancestors, singing songs of their deeds, and reciting their lineages with pride. The orcs way is one of war, and only the greatest of deeds are sung. The spirits of the ancient orcs are used as a strength of the race, not of indivivuals long since dead..."
Martin:
Maka eats slowly, listening to the old troll talking.
"I never knew this about the spirits... I.. think I am going to think about this... Very few people have talked of them with any sort of.. insight.. What of the elemental spirits?"
Jenny:
Chem'jin sneers, apparently holding no love for those. "The elementals are servants of their own masters, and they can be drained dead and left to rot for all I care." He settles down and starts eating himself.
Martin:
Maka nods and returns to his meal, eating slowly and ponderously.
Jenny:
After a while Chem'jin throws the plate aside and the bone into the fire, coughs for a little, and then takes out some more of the strange herbs, which he tosses into the fire as well. The smoke starts to spread in the small hut again, dulling pain and senses. The priest peers at the hunter lying next to the fire, and then lets out a faint cough. He waves a hand that looks like bones tied together with straps of skin, and rises to his feet from his crouching position. "Turn over. Let me look at the wounds, boy."
Martin:
Maka, slightly woozy from the fumes, turns over without protesting. He winces as the scabbed wounds crack open, but makes no sound to reveal discomfort
Jenny:
The old one sits down on his haunches, and mutters to himself for a moment. Maka can almost feel the old hands wave over the back for a moment, before he starts coughing and gets up again. "Puss and rot and old blood... Festering boils, Hunter. Must be treated." He shuffles off a little, and returns with a wooden box, a waterpouch and a bowl. He sits down again, fills the water into the bowl, and opens the box. The first thing he takes out is a small idol, made from a dark metal. He places it on the ground before Makas face, where it stares at him.
Martin:
Maka peers curiously at the idol. "Who is that of?"
Jenny:
"Mueh'zala. Keep staring."
Martin:
Maka shudders, and narrows his eyes at the idol. He mutters something under his breath, over and over again. It can almost sound like an old protective chant, for those who have heard it before
Jenny:
He can hear the dry, hoarse cough that may or may not be laughter. The strong scent of potions and herbs fill the room even more strongly, and Maka can only hear faint sounds of rustling and chanting from the old troll, or perhaps it is only mindless mutterings. Now and then he feels a sting, perhaps of a knife or a needle, or maybe it is voodoo working its wonders. Mueh'zala doesn't take his eyes off Maka.
Martin:
Maka winces slightly as the old witchdoctor works his mojo, but very carefully keeps his eyes on the idol, holding its stare. "Hrm.. Is there any reason that you have the Harbinger at the ready here? Are the wounds that nasty?" Maka keeps his tone forcefully conversational, masking the nervous edge as well as he can.
Jenny:
There is more muttering, and the smoke becomes heavier. There is hardly any pain, though, and to Maka it almost seems as if Chem'Jin has not touched his back at all. "Be quiet, young one..." There is a moment of silence, and then the others voice is heard again, more certain now. "Some days, Makal'zuun, Mueh'zala is a hunter. Like the great cats, he only kills the sick and the old, culling the flock. Sometimes, a warrior will stand up to him, and stare him in the eyes. Sometimes he folds, and sometimes he strikes. Never fold before Mueh'zala, hunter. Learn this. Other days, he is like a farmer, and gathers fallen fruit only, takes souls passed to the domains of Samedi..." There is a cough. "I will tell more, when I am done."
Martin:
Maka nods, and keeps his eyes on the idol. Damned if he's going down now. He stops his small chant and grits his teeth together, staring the metal Loa viciously in the eyes
Jenny:
It seems like forever, but eventually the gnarled hand reaches down and takes the staring Loa away. Maka has felt no hands on his back or shoulders for a long time, at least as he can remember. There is the snap of the wooden box being closed, and then there is the trickling of water. He can feel the cold as a wet rag is pulled across his skin with a trembling hand. It stings, and his skin feels stiff and strange, but it does not hurt as much as before.
Martin:
Maka stretches a little, as he OF COURSE had to lie on a root or stone or whatever.. He turns a little, reaching behind him to feel his back.
Jenny:
His hand hit something wet and cold... and that'd be the water. Chem'Jin sits back, watching him as he runs his hand across carefully stitched cuts, popped boils and dressed wounds. Needle and thread seems to have done a lot of the work. Whatever had made the pain go away is still working, it seems.
Martin:
Maka smiles slightly. He turns to face Chem'Jin and nods once. "Thank you.."
Jenny:
The old troll just snorts, turning his head and spitting into the fire. It fizzles disturbingly. "Just answer me..." he turns forwards again, the fire casting its light on the back of his head, outlining his features in the darkness. And there is some similarity, isn't there, between his face and the idol? "Why did I put the statue before you? Why did I ask you to stare at it?"
Martin:
"Well, I suppose it was mostly an attempt to shut me up to get to work in peace.." Maka snickers slightly to himself. "But that idol stared back at me. That probably means something. Even if I can't place it. I'm not all that learned, so.. All I know of Mueh'Zala is that he fetches the dead".
Jenny:
There is a slow nod. Very slow. It's very hard to read the shadowed face. "If I only wanted that I could have put you to sleep. By herb, by voodoo or by club." He coughs, and shuffles into a slightly more comfortable position, his legs crossed on the earth floor. "Noo... it does not matter what you learn. It might even work better the less you know of Him."
Martin:
Maka eyes him quizzically for a short time, before yawning widely. "Whatever you say.. I.. would like to.. know why.. that is, then.." His eyes start fluttering, and he leans back against the furs.
Jenny:
Chem'Jin watches him again, and lets out a faint cough. "Heal first, think later. Sleep, boy. Dreams will be good tonight." He nods to himself, making predictions about dreams as if it was the weather. Maka drifts off before he can hear anything else. Maybe it's the relief of finally having his wounds taken care of, perhaps it is the smoke of herbs, perhaps it is something else, but the last thing he sees before drifting off is the face of the idol, staring at him... and then turning around to disappear into the mists.

[Tsya]

Right! Getting to come into the story a bit, and delving deeper into the voodoo that Chem'Jin is teaching.

Now, modifying this text to fit the forums takes some time, and I don't mind doing it if you people want to read this story, not in the least! But this is page 16/53 in total, and there is still a long way to go. So I'd like some feedback at this point. What do you think? Does this version of voodoo and spirits sound good or horrible? Is it anything that inspires/annoys you?
And most important of all:
Do you want me to keep posting? Will you be wanting to hear the rest?

[Tsya]

Well, I guess I can give this up then, since noone is reading it.

[Zukkann]

You kidding? I'm reading it and drooling for more! GIEF!

[Felicc]

YES! Gif more! *is waiting for more*

[Tsya]

*blinks* You're kidding, right?
I said in the last post that I needed some feedback and wouldn't post any more until you gave me some, and you have been waiting for me to do something more?

[Makalzuun]

xD Swedish brain powarz ftw

[Felicc]

Bah, I've said stuff in other treads, thought that would been enough. It's not much to say, I like the intrigues. But it is not a book or story in the form it's usually written, it's a RP conversation. Keep going!

[Tsathoggua]

Been enjoying much. Do keep it going! It's an intriguing read.