I mean, he's most likely awake at the time of the fighting, but I'm not sure how long it'll take him to be fully awake. I'll start writing the post some time today. I might be able to post it by tomorrow.
The New Yorker
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Treading the Rhetorical Minefield
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I'm just your average New Yorker. A guy who thinks he can do more than he ought.
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Hmm, I'm thinking of a post I could make for Cillian. I'm not sure though. He may still be asleep. Who knows?
@MacabreFox Alright that might be better for you to go ahead and have the collab now since then I can run through the boring morning and have them hike through the desert with something rather interesting in their path within Emmett's next post.
I think this is a good decision.
I thought I'd get a reaction from Cillian in there, which is up btw.
Macabre and I can collab their discussion if you'd like. But we can just say that she filled him in on what's going on if that's any better.
Macabre and I can collab their discussion if you'd like. But we can just say that she filled him in on what's going on if that's any better.
Cillian O'Houlihan
Cillian’s eyes followed the tossed bottle as it made its way over the fire and into the sand. His eye twitched as he thought about its implications. Rook was a bastard, a conniving bastard with little regard for privacy or dignity. The Brawler tightened his bandages thoughtfully as he stared at the bottle sitting in the sand.
"Does she seem angry to you? I mean more so than usual.” Cillian heard as his focus loosened.
He looked up at Rook, the fire reflecting in Cillian’s dark eyes, "How am I supposed to know?” He resented Rook knowing so much about him, and a part of him wondered if he could induce memory loss without killing someone. That thought disturbed him only slightly, if it had been directed at anyone else he would have been worried.
He picked up the bottle and smelled its contents, the piercing aroma seemed alright (he placed the proof somewhere around 40-50%). He took a swig, corked it, and tossed it back, where it fell in the sand. Cillian noticed Grace appear from the darkness, like a nymph exiting it' pool. He couldn’t help but feel a welling of admiration and delight as he watched her swaggered gait kick up dust in the pulsing firelight. He watched the darkness behind her as she approached, expecting to see the rest. As she sat Cillian prodded the bonfire, bringing more strength to the flames. As Grace finished her explanation of the events Cillian stuck the prodding stick in the coals of the fire and smiled at her.
“Flower picking, eh?” Cillian said to her knowingly. “I never thought you could be so worked up by botany. Next time I want to see you annoyed, I’ll bring a cactus flower.” She was lying. Whatever had made her so angry as to wake him up couldn’t be explained away as something as harmless as picking flowers. No, she was right the first time, he could tell, she didn’t want to say anything in front of Rook, for some reason. It mattered little for Cillian, if this secret of hers could provide an advantage over Rook or Emmett he wanted to hear it. ”Sorry for waking you, Rook, you should get some more sleep.” he said as he steadied his voice, attempting to remain casual. He was certain that he wasn’t tipping his hand or being overly pushy. To further alleviate the issue and move past the discussion Cillian stood up. He began stretching his arm muscles aside the bonfire as he spoke. ”I’ll probably go on a quick patrol of the perimeter. Some of the things out here are drawn in by noises of distress.” He smirked at Grace as he went into a crouch and began stretching his legs. “Wanna join me, big-mouth?”
There's my post. Let me know if I'm overstepping some bounds on Rook @Deserted.
Cillian O'Houlihan
The fire crackled in the hearth of Sundusk manor on the ebony coast of Lusk. The day had been long, filled with the maintenance of misted grape fields. The night was dark already as rain pattered against the full length glass pane facing the coast, and a storm brewed over the Moon-touched Pass further off. Cillian smiled as he held Johna in his arms. They watched Kalen, their toddler, laying on the fur carpet playing with a rattle in his hand.
“He’s quite magical, isn’t he?” Johna said brightly.
“He is.” Cillian responded soberly as he watched the fire light play in his child's eyes.
“If only my father would recognize it. If only he would put all his stupid, selfish pride aside and accept my son, his grandson, a rightful heir! He treats him like a bastard, as if we were never married.” Johna was physically disturbed by this thought, she shook in his arms as she spoke. She had always been concerned with the position her son would acquire, especially since she and Cillian made a choice to marry. She didn’t care for her own endowments, but always felt that her child, especially a son, ought to deserve a privileged status. Cillian didn’t care about any of it, and he knew his son would never be a prince or a nobleman, and that made him proud. But Johna cared about it, she thought about it all the time, and Cillian knew that he should just let her complain, let her think about it until she realized the truth; slowly, but meaningfully. Soon she’ll see that Kalen would make his way in the world better than any nobleman, and she’ll be older and warrier, and she’ll be proud of him despite all the anger and desperation she displayed now. Passion is tamed by time, and that worked to the benefit of all humankind.
“Psst.” He heard from Johna. He looked at her and her voice didn’t seem to be her own. It was harsher, but more honest. “Can ye put more tinder on the fire?”
Cillian nodded in a knowing daze, walking across the carpeted living room floor. It extended beyond his reach with every step and grew colder and colder as the room began to disappear around him. His family disappeared behind him and the darkness in front of him became splattered with lights, and was cut by the smoldering flame at the center of the camp. And in that moment Cillian was awake; very awake. He peered into the darkening flames as a voice echoed from across the desert sand. Like a grain itself the voice bounced and flitted across the surface, becoming smaller as it finally reached the camp.
“Yer gonna put this whole damned quest in jeopardy boy!” He heard clearly from the pitch blackness beyond the fire. Othen walked out from under his tent and solemnly made his way into the darkness. Cillian sat up and connected the fragments of reality from his dream with the reality he was currently experiencing. He understood now that Grace had come across Emmett doing something wrong, which was no surprise to Cillian. The boy had skills and stamina, but he didn’t exhibit any decision making skills what-so-ever. Whatever it was that had Grace in a tizzy now, Cillian could be certain that it was serious. So, Cillian sat up from the sleeping bag, reached underneath to find his flask, and took a sip. It was the last of a whiskey reserve he had brought, so he grimaced as he drank; not because of the taste or the strength, but because it was the last drop of good alcohol he’d have in a while, and he knew it.
After that he stood and walked over to Rook’s tent. He opened the flap and spoke loudly into the darkness. “Your nephew is causing trouble, Rook. The fucking camp is empty and Grace is making a scene in the middle of the Badlands. Do you want to take care of this or shall I?”
Rook took a moment shuffling in his bedroll so Cillian closed the flap and returned to the fire, adding more wood from the pile and stoking the flames. He knelt over the fire as it grew. And as the fire in the pit grew, so did the fire inside of him. This kid had been a nuisance since the beginning of the trip, and now he was potentially putting the group at risk. Cillian, up until this point, had made an effort to allow Rook to take care of Emmett. But if this situation was serious enough, and the kid couldn’t be brought to heel with reason, Cillian would be forced to step in. This boy was not going to be responsible for the deaths of this team, and Cillian would make sure of it. The Northern Island Brawler brooded over the fire pit, staring into the darkness above the flames, listening intently to the muted speech over the crackling wood. Without thinking he had begun wrapping his fists in the bandages he usually wore around his wrists, something he often did before a fight.
I'm probably going to get my post up by tonight or tomorrow. This is quite an interesting start.
Not bad, not bad.
Mind if I use your idea?
@Chaotic Chao I made Gambit a former CIA agent in my iteration of his story. I wish I had time to flesh that out cuz it was a totally badass path to take Remy down. Perhaps you should think of another life path Remy could have gone down that doesn't just involve the thieves guild and joining one super team or another.
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