Subject: Re: IC: Wolves Glen Pub From: Jeff Huo In article <20010709092527.02349.00000603@nso-ca.aol.com>, kylinn@aol.com says... > He sighs. Shrugs. And, shaking his head > slightly, advances the rest of the way to > the small group. He turns a charming smile > upon them and bows a greeting. > > "Hi there! So nice to meet you. You can > call me Toby if you want to, though of > course that isn't my name. I thought I'd > just drop by and say 'hi' to all my good > friends here, and naturally I couldn't pass > you by. How ya doin'?" Directly behind the Pooka the Pub door opens again...but not to Harami's Mars, not to Turnberry's Chicago, not to any of the places of that reality... No, one can feel it in their very bones; through this door lies a totally different dimention, and a whole new story, even as the previous continues... [OOC: Hello hello! Hope everyone is well. ] ..... "Do you mark all this well, King Caspian?" "I do indeed, Sir," said Caspian. "I was wishing that I came of a more honorable lineage." "You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve," said Aslan. "And that is both honour enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor in earth. Be content." -CS Lewis, _Prince_Caspian_ She is totally, completely, and utterly mortal. Not Kin, not Kinain, not pre-Awakened, psionic, cybered or anything else --totally, utterly, and completely ordinarily mortal to every sense, magickal, technological or otherwise that one might direct at her. And every sense would be right. Oh, she's a Dreamer; her Banality is low, quite low. But save for that she posseses no magick at all. A woman of African heritage, her once-black hair now a dignified grey, tied back in a very short ponytail, placing her firmly at the latter half of a human lifespan. But her posture is solidly erect, her motions full of energy, her eyes bright and animated, and a look of excitement fills her face --this lady has a lot of living yet to do before she's done... Your first glance of her is through the opened door of the Pub --someone has apparently held the Pub door open for her as she arrives with a clatter, pulling right up to the curb astride a mechanical four-legged contraption that looks like a headless steam-punk ivory and chrome horse. Anyone so familiar would immediately identify her dress as academic formal -the robe, hood, black eight-sided tam in place of a mortar board, which would have long before flew off her head had one of her hands not been clamped firmly on it, her other hand holding the steed's reins. The robe is dark crimson, with three black-velvet bars at each sleeve; two black velvet panels run vertically down her front, each embroidered in golden thread at about breast level with the coat of arms of her university -- a cross ermine, lions rampant upper left and lower right, unicorns lower left an upper right; a book centered, a sunburst within it's pages. At her exposed neck rides a burst of white lace, and one can make out the navy-blue suit she wears under the robe. The academic hood is golden yellow velvet on one side, crimson and white satin on the other. Around her neck she wears a gold medallion, about palm-sized, on a wide crimson ribbon; and a long necklace/wreath of small square gold panels, like the sigils of office mayors in old European cities used to wear. Anchored in a breast pocket, worn like a badge, is an octogon of featureless black polished stone the size of a hand, mounted in gold and secured with a chain she wears like a sash. Exquisitely crafted little earings contrast with the simple gold band on the third finger of her left hand. No makeup. A handbag the size of a lap-top computer case. Boots meant for walking. About five-nine in height, ordinary build, ordinary looks. Behind her the street is a busy cobblestone street, winding between close-packed sets of narrow brick buildings: down the street is a tall church steeple --the Old North Church of Paul Revere fame, for those so familiar. In the background mighty glass and gold skyscrapers reach for the heavens; small craft soar through the air, and what look like flying barges lumber across the sky --until you see the subtle reflection of transparent gas bags that keep aloft these flying airships. A cool breeze blows in autumn leaves, still red and gold. Outside, it is twilight or dawn --the sky the rosy hues of the sun low on the horizon. "This Pub still be open?" she calls out in a distinct British accent as she wheels her mechanical mount up before the open door. "Aye, m'lady," the hidden doorman calls back. " 'Tis not too late to join us this evenin'." The woman looks visibly relieved by this fact. "I was worried I would arrive after closing time and not be able to get in," she explains as the mechanical mount kneels to let her down and she dismounts. "I thought the banquet would never end!" She leans over, touching some hidden stud on the side of the horse, and with a series of whirs, clicks and whooshes the robotic steed folds itself compactly into a case the size of a carry-on luggage. "Stow for me, please?" she asks the doorman, handing him a note of currency, as she strides into the Pub and the door shuts behind her. Her face is animated, excited, expectant, her eyes drink in every detail of the Pub.... ...and then she sees Toby, and Leigh, and Merlin, the lack of reflection in the mirror behind Julia. Yes, she sees all these things, sees them for what they truly are. She stops dead cold right in her tracks. Her mouth drops open as her expectation turns to wonder. "Oh my," she whispers quietly to herself. A moment as she looks around once again carefully, as if to prove to herself, that, yes, what she sees is real. A great big smile forms. "Well, what do you know," she continues, in a voice so quiet it's barely audible. "There really *are* such things as Trolls and Pooka and Fae." An even bigger smile. "And all those years they've been saying that there's no such thing as magick..." She finally can't help herself, and she throws her head back laughing happily, not caring who hears, not caring what others might think, the laughter of a woman who has been questing after an impossible dream her entire life and suddenly finds herself walking within it. "Well met, Toby! My name is Alex," she says happily, offering her hand to Toby and anyone else who would take it. > Toby, otter pooka - Alex, Mortal Human Dreamer I have a place / where dreams are born / and time is never planned / It's not on any chart / you must find it in your heart / Never, Never Land.... [OOC: Alex comes from the last set of conversations I was having with Kylinn and Geoffrey here regarding knowledge of the WoD, and roleplaying someone with no knowledge or even powers....and while things continue elsewhere, here hopefully is someone from a whole different world, unrelated to anything that comes before, who will be sticking around for a while. Thanks! :-) ] -- Jeff Huo | jeff@spundreams.net.nospam (remove nospam) U. Michigan Med | http://www.spundreams.net/~jeff New to the group? Welcome! Please visit http://www.pepin.demon.co.uk/wolves/ IC Character sheets at http://www.spundreams.net/~jeff/wgpatum.html