The Death of Rats

Rosebud or Rose Red?

It does! I think I'll chuck a couple of bucks in the hat. (could make for great gift giving...by game playing! Oh, twenty-first century, you so crazy!)

Iffy on this one as well (at the moment)... but that's really only due to knowing full well how dramatic this one could get, and how little I want anything but melodrama and silliness right now. So- I do not know if I will, but color me intrigued.

I had my doubts about quite such a grim setting, but damn if y'all didn't make it splendid. My only regret is not giving it MORE time, now we're done. (aaand...nice telgraphing your baning, Gyr. I approve!)

That was so sweet! And a little sad. I think Andersen would've been pleased.

Pooh. Didn't forget this time... just had naught I could think to say in response to the nifty interludes! Oh well. I still look forward to seeing how this wraps up- I am really liking the story everyone has put forth. Go, Go... everybody!

Dear Vene, All the better to eat you with, my de- wait... I mean NOM NOM NO- No, that's not it. LIES! CALUMMY! SLAND-! Oh wait. I mean... Fair play! I had Swanson order double grog rations earlier on. I thank you for the offer, though.

Swanson simply lay there in a sort of sullen shock until the doctor came to treat him. Though it was the worst wound he'd ever received (even in the stories of him in Barbados), now his adrenaline was down, but not his anger. "I have less and less respect for the dead," he growled through gritted teeth as the puncture was sewn closed. "Damn York and his willingness to take people who know magic and clap them in irons. Damn my eyes too, for assuming such things wouldn't happen to us." Of course Equiano might not have been the monster. It's only in the penny dreadfuls that villains are charismatic showmen. The Lieutenant knew that his and the ship's only hope was that the mystic was also feeding the fury. If not, they could kill the thing, and still be doomed. Under the doctor's protest, he returned immediately to his duties after his wound was cleaned and dressed. The only hope they had of staying alive long at all was calm nerves and clear mind. Drink and being made to keep doing their jobs. Swanson walked the lower to upper decks, issuing orders to officers and all who hesitated. An hour passed. Eleven bells. (OOC: A vote for Gyrflacon' Michael. Maybe the full on supernatural?)

Damn. Pat, props to you. I think you made me feel just as bad for surviving as Peredhil's parting words for Equiano would've. T_T EDIT: Mynx! Tanny! Also dammit! Such GOOD FOLLOW UP! That was o adorable and sad! My feels!! (Now I regret living AND that I cannot post anything to do alla this justice. GAH.)

Boazaman! Greetings!!

And I nearly forgot to post, so don't feel too bad. O_o

The Lieutenant looked on the hastily departing skiff grimly. "What would you have have me do? Shoot them? We haven't enough men who can overpower them, and I doubt they fear death right now." Swanson's hand was on his pistol- but it wasn't primed. "Besides, in the middle of the ocean? They're commiting suicide and you know it." He turned and began his march down the deck, gesturing for the first mate to follow. "We'll continue on our course- it's too late to turn back now. So we press on, and remain ready to immediate hail any navy ship we see. We need soliders right now." Swanson called the bells, as his duty had been for two years. Ten. (OOC: Peredhil's Equiano. Technology and industry crowd out magic, so I wonder...!)

Swanson was starting to sweat all the time now. He wondered if the men could see it. Though the word monster was now starkly real to his own fears as the word mutiny, sea life ingrained certain habits into your very soul; such that he continued to mop his brow to appear... well, less fazed by it all than the rest of the crew. He didn't even seem to notice (or care?) that Equiano was issuing orders to the cook without making any reports to the officers.

Yeesh! Yes, ah, happy birthday?

IIIIIIIiiinteresting! (Dude who's got a Devil one shoulder, a Werewolf on the others has problems, yo.)

Swanson had already ordered the cook to dispense double grog rations tonight; knowing full well it could easily add to the wag of already mobile tongues. It woulde definitely help the men sleep. He'd even issues some to the slaves; ideally a well-rested mind would have a more difficult time being paranoid, or God forbid, aggressive. If the talk got much worse, at least Mister Bland would have much to occupy his mind with. Lietenant Swanson turned from the raliing to meet the quietly approaching form. "Yes, Mister Paqs?"

Carey had scarcely returned to his mop when Swanson's bellow lashed against a sailor not as subtle as he. "Mister Livesey! Way off that chatter, or you'll meet Mister Bland's rattan, you will! Mind your work!" The Lieutenant was tense indeed. Sailing men were supersitious as a rule, and at the best of times rumor flies like a blaze around a ship. A captain was never killed in the best of times, and The Fat Slug's had just been. This also left Sawyer an even higher ranking officer than he was yesterday, in practice, if not name. He had to enforce discipline, or the whole crew could explode. [(OOC: Vote for Mynx. You rabble-rouser, you.)EDIT: Fixing the Lieutenant's name. Yeesh.]

New, certainly. Unless it is a very good rollercoaster. 42 or 52?

But, if'n yore at all curious how I scratched the roleplaying and writing itch during my conspicuous abscences (this IS Ozymandias, by thee way), here is the story of my character's part in the MMO I play: http://enquirer.improbableisland.com/dokuwiki/doku.php?id=harris * *Warning: Conatins violence, nudity, and a cat person, but no anime.

Lieutenant Swanson was humourless, as usual (or so much of the crew believed while he was onboard. On land, however, there were stories... Stories that got you watch and watch if you let him hear you telling them.). He strode the deck on the carefully mapped route he'd taken for two years now, calling four bells.

Holyshitit'saGyrfalconHiGyr.

Mountain. Sometimes, you need to climb. rain or sun?

Tradition is easily lovely, but change lets you move forward. White or black?

Seeing is believing, but knowing- ah, that has no such limit. Passing strange or passing fancy?

"Clear the deck for action! Hands to quarters! Clear for action!" ...the lieutenant quickly obeyed.