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Yes, but don't just take my word for it.
SOH

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

I love this game, and hope you guys are having fun!

To whom it may concern:

I think whoever would like to, should make a second character!

This will increase the character population, and perhaps help us out when we are stuck.
Winston readjusted his glasses and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sausage-fingers. Damp half-moons had formed by the armpits of his shirt. Across the table from him sat a girl with wavy ginger hair. She was looking around with arched brows and questions dancing in the fields of her eyes. At either shoulder stood two guards, the full-face visors of their helmets reflecting a distorted view of the room. It was a barren affair, with only one door, and, on the ceiling, a halogen light behind a frosted glass disk.

The girl had been brought from her holding cell after she was judged safe enough to transport without serious restraints. Still, after her outbreak in the infirmary, Winston was nervous. He wasn’t even supposed to be involved with debriefing or interviewing, but they had somehow roped him into it; apparently, the regular guy was too ill.

He cleared his throat and began flicking through the folder on the desk, about to speak, when she beat him to it.

“You’re so dark.” She said, with a genuine wonderment.

“I’m sorry?” Winston spluttered, caught quite off-guard.

“Your skin,” she clarified, “I’ve never seen anyone with skin so dark.”

“Well…” Winston paused, uncertain as to what he should say, “It’s quite common.”

“Really?” The girl nearly shrilled, evidently quite excited about this revelation.

Winston began to relax; she wasn’t so intimidating. “Oh yes. There are plenty of people just as ‘dark’ as me, or darker.”

The girl’s face formed an ‘O’. She took a deep breath, and then asked a question he could feel she had had behind her lips from the moment she arrived.

“Am I in Tír na nÓg?”

Winston, whilst he didn’t understand the question, could feel its gravity, and saw the hopeful fire burning in her eyes, and he knew what she wanted the answer to be. He could not bring himself to destroy that hope.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly, “but-”. The girl pounded her fist onto the table and screamed in delight. The guards and Winston recoiled, the guards reaching for their Tasers reflexively, but then she began laughing manically. The kindling fire in her eyes had exploded into electricity.

“I never thought I’d make it,” she was saying, “Part of me doubted this place even existed, but here I am. More fool me.” She sighed deeply and reclined, content, with a large grin splitting her face.

“Well, yes, as I was saying, most people call it ‘Earth’, and it has different regions and places within, so I doubt you’ll ever heard it called,” he couldn’t remember what words she had used, but added, quick enough to avoid suspicion, “that.”

“Ah, ‘Earth’,” she said, trying the word out. She figured it came from the daoine sídhe, the people of the mounds.

A crackle cut through the silence, followed by some fuzzy words came from the radio clipped to Winston’s breast pocket, “Winston, be back in the global surveillance department by nineteen hundred hours.”

He depressed the rubber button on the side and spoke back, “Roger.”

The girl starred with wide eyes. “Is that black box magic?”

He thought about telling her it wasn’t magic, and trying to explain how it worked, but he realised he didn’t even know, “Yes, there are many things that work with similar sort of magic on Earth.” Mallaidh was suitably awestruck.

A guard readjusted his gun, an apparent cue, for Winston straightened up, and the butterflies returned to his stomach. He began sorting through the folder, but couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for, as he kept backtracking.

“Can you help me?”

Winston paused and looked up at her over the rim of his glasses, which had slipped to the tip of his nose. There was something in her voice that tugged at his heartstrings. He closed the folder and rested both his hands over it.

“What’s your name?” He asked softly.

“Mallaidh.” She answered, her name almost sounding like “Molly”.

“My name is Winston, and I’m not very important here; I’m a smaller part of a larger whole. Nevertheless, there is a chance we might be able to help you. What is it you need?”

Mallaidh leaned forwards, consciously trying to supress the anxiousness she felt, knowing that she could still fall at this final hurdle of her journey, but it escaped, manifesting as rapid finger movements and the fidgeting in her chair.

“My mother is very ill, and I was told that the Tuatha Dé would have magic that could heal her.”

Winston’s breath caught. He took of his glasses and began cleaning them with a cuff as he considered his words. His eyes looked imploring into the mirrored visors of the guards, but then they started shooting resentful daggers when he realised he would find no trace of humanity behind them. It would not be necessary to break the charade yet, he realised, but that didn’t make it any easier to tell the girl she might not get to save her mother.

“It is possible that we might have a cure; you would have to describe the state of your mother to some special people.” He replaced his glasses, “The real problem is getting you back; you were brought here by a series of events that are, for the most part, a mystery to us.” Mallaidh was surprised at this; if something was beyond the eyes of the gods, then it must hide in the thickest of shadows.

“That brings me to my main point,” Winston went on, “Earth is probably very different from your home. There are other people like you ‘visitors’. My purpose is to try and make you familiar with the more different aspects of life here.”

The session lasted perhaps another hour; there were questions, starting of very basic and becoming a little more philosophical towards the tail end. Winston had shown her pictures of various contraptions, such as ‘cars’, ‘planes’ and ‘mobile phones’. As far as Mallaidh understood, they were metal beasts, tamed to perform as set purpose. A brief history was given, but didn’t go back more than a hundred years, and only touched on key events. Mallaidh was interested in this, as she had always wondered what the gods had been doing since the time of legend. Winston also explained how the corporation, which Mallaidh deciphered as ‘clan’, he was part of wanted to help her and the other ‘visitors’ to get back home, and elucidate the roots of their arrival.

At the end, Winston offered something called ‘coffee’, which Mallaidh accepted graciously, not wanting to offend. He spoke into his little, black box again, and got a crackling response of confirmation. She would get it once back in her room.

The two guards then blindfolded Mallaidh, which Winston stressed was just ‘standard procedure’, so she complied; again she was scared to offend the people who could heal her mother. Both guards escorted her, taking a twisting and turning path, far longer than she suspect was necessary. There was a whirring sound, and then they removed her blindfold. She turned just in time to see a polished metal panel slide shut, becoming seamless with the wall.

The new room was a clash of alien and familiar; metal panels made up the walls and ceilings, housing tubes of halogen lights, casting the room in bright white light, but the floor was oak boards, and much of it was covered in near-threadbare furniture, all facing inwards towards a central rug that really tied the room together. There were small lamp-tables next to each seat, and held either worn paperback Penguin Classics, or glossy magazines. There were two oil paintings of scenic fjords, presumably in Norway, that made up for the lack of any windows, or at least tried.

Mallaidh sat down in a floral armchair, sinking into the time-softened upholstery, and regarded the room, well aware she was quite alone. Her hands ached to grip the reassuring heft of Fragarach, but she had not woken up with it, and she had been too giddy with the thought of a cure to ask about it. It was likely it had been taken as sacrifice for her entry into Tír na nÓg, and she could invoke the anger of all the Tuatha Dé if she asked for it back.

The panel slid open again, and through the entrance stepped a meagre girl, who offered a single word, “coffee”. She placed it on the table next to the armchair and left hurriedly, eyes always at the ground. The door slid shut, and Mallaidh was alone again.

The coffee was a creamy-brown liquid in a pleasingly corrugated cup, made of an indiscernible material. Even if she had missed the wisps of steam rising from its surface, she could still feel its dull heat in her fingertips when she picked it up. She took a small sip. It pinched her lips, and sent bitterness throughout her person. She spat it back into the cup and set it down, working her mouth to get rid of the foul taste. She did not like coffee.

What's more impressive is that you got a like from somebody not even in the rp.
Noted and changed.
Name: Mallaidh mac Uthechar

Age: 17

Gender: Female

Species: Human

World of Origin: Middles Ages, Earth analogue

Are you a member of TRIDENT? No

Appearance:
She is a lean, wiry girl, with a pale complexion and flat chest, despite being partway towards womanhood. Locks of autumn and embers in a dying hearth frame a square-jawed face. Dazzling emeralds are set in her eye sockets. A faint scar, the ghost of a broken nose, rests between her dark brows. Her hands are calloused from use, and her muscles strong, her size belying this, as she is quite short.

She wears a white leine under a shawl of thick furs, its flowing sleeves clasped tight to her forearms by leather vambraces. A thick belt holds close hide breeches, and houses various pouches, and the loops for her hatchets; old things with well-worn shafts and age-blackened heads. A thick woollen cloak shields her from the elements, and on her shoulder, a longbow rests next to its quiver. To her right boot, both of which are hardened leather, is strapped a hunting knife.

The most important of her possessions is an heirloom passed down for many generations: a great, two-handed sword called Fragarach, which resides comfortably in a leather scabbard, itself decorated with charms of metal and bone. This is a sword of legend, forged by Gods, and has many magical properties: it was said that no one could tell a lie or move, with Fragarach at his or her throat. It was also said to place the wind at the user's command and could cut through any shield or wall, and had a piercing wound from which no man could recover. However, nearly all of its magic is lost, and the remnant that remains is merely an imposing sword.

Somewhat like this visual aid:


Abilities and skills:
Mallaidh has been taught how to hunt and track, and is adept enough to survive from these skills. She can make a fire use flint and steel, and can field dress most woodland creatures. She is an excellent marksman, though has little love for it, always preferring to spar instead. She favours Fragarach most of all, despite it being only slightly too heavy for her to use proficiently.

History:
Born as the fourth child of Uthechar mac Bran, a noted lord, and the first daughter, Mallaidh grew up within the stronghold of her family next to Lough Bern, surrounded by servants and guardsmen of her father. From a young age, she was never taken with the womanly arts, and, one day, in a mighty bot of petulance, refused the instruction of her tutor and demanded she be allowed to ride with her brothers and father to hunt. Much to the later dismay of her mother, her father had laughed and agreed.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise to learn then that Mallaidh was his favourite. He saw the headstrong stubbornness and internal loyalty of his own youth. However, in his sons, he also found uniqueness to hate, despite not wishing to. The firstborn, Miach, was a prideful being, and was so full of arrogance it was sickening. Sreng, the second, had an oily mark on his soul, and something seemed off about him; perhaps it was the ever-present, knowing smile, or the way he managed to look down his nose at everyone, or the way he liked to count his coin. The third, Eirc, was scared of everything, and could not fight to save his life, which he would someday have to. Uthechar’s efforts to quell these traits were unsuccessful, as he was often away with his army on conquest.

It was through her father, when he was present, and, more often, his men, that she learnt to fight and hunt.

Miach was the first to die, when he drunkenly agreed to fight a bear, as did two of the spectators, disembowelled or crushed before the bear was slain.

Eirc died when he was thrown from his horse and landed on his head. Mallaidh mourned the longest for him, for though she could see he would be a shame-bringer for her father, she could also see he had a soft, tender heart.

Sreng did not die, but, revealing the true blackness of his heart, killed Uthechar during his sleep, and made off with much wealth with a handful of his conspirers. Fragarach had been Uthechar’s until then, and it was passed to the only remaining heir, Mallaidh, who accepted in with much reverence; she remains to treat it with such, oiling and sharpening it when needed.

Uthechar’s wife, Lelay, fell gravely ill with grief. Mallaidh loved her, despite her disapproval of her chosen path; she had the sweetest voice and the gentlest touch, which brought back memories of a lazy summer breeze and carefree times. The physicians said she had only months to live.

A scholar spoke of a cure, saying that the Tuatha Dé Danann could treat her with their magic, but she would have to visit Connla’s Well and catch the Salmon of Knowledge, who could give answers on how to enter the Otherworld, to Tír na nÓg, where the Tuatha Dé reside.

Mallaidh set out without delay, taking and handful of supplies, relying mostly on her instincts, and the skills she had been taught, to survive the wilds.

After travelling across seas, she found herself caught in a blizzard on a mountain pass. The ground gave way and she fell freely from her horse and into a flurry-filled chasm.

Then into the Rift.

She was unconscious when Trident found her.
Edit: Approved CS moved to character tab.
Herbert was slightly taken aback, but the desired result was achieved, and people began to leave his room.

It was not long after, perhaps mere minutes, that Herbert felt himself slipping, when another voice enquired about coffee. It seemed to fill the entire room. Herbert was annoyed that someone had come to bother him again, and grumbled a “no” in the hopes they would leave swiftly. He did not once open his eyes, so the lack of any corporeal form for the voice never struck him as odd.

He rolled over, trying to find a position where his bruises and scrapes hurt the least.

The short man was dangerous, that much Herbert had ascertained, but his outbreaks seemed to become even more aggressive; he could here the through the still-open door. Therefore, it was with genuine trepidation that Herbert closed his eyes after everyone had left his room, afraid of what could happen if he were to drift off to sleep. More specifically, what that midget would do to him. The others seemed more docile, if a little shell-shocked, but that man was terrifying in his questionable stability. The thought settled like a stone in the bucket of his mind, weighing heavy on him, so much that he doubted he could even sleep.
I'm doing great Eyeris! Thanks for asking and being a wonderful GM!
After the second form blocked the doorway, Herbert dropped all pretence of hospitality and openly scowled. Why was peace and quiet seemingly now such a commodity? Then he took in the man’s appearance and had to subdue a wretch of convulsion. Burn scars covered half his face: rippling waves of glossy white tissue, giving the impression of wax, stretched across his skull, with rivulets of red, raw flesh meandering between. A lidless eye starred out, unnaturally wide-open, red and swelling with tears.

At the mention of Russia, Herbert felt an itching sensation behind his eye, but then it was gone. They must have been soldiers from the Russian front, injured and sent back home for rest and recuperation. It certainly explained the burn, and the missing knowledge of location. These men must have been part of an assault involving the castle mentioned. Quite what English were doing there was beyond Herbert, but he did not want to question the military.

However, the burnt man seemed to be under the impression that they were in a holding cell. Perhaps capture had been imminent before their timely rescue and transportation home.

Certainly, it would seem that way, for yet another person entered Herbert’s room, and he could not stop the groan escaping his lungs. This man was far shorter, and seemed to have a peculiar glass eye, and even more peculiar and garish slippers. He spoke with a familiarity to the room. Not surprising as men from the same village or town were often deployed together. They couldn’t live more than a stone’s throw from the hospital then.

Then the castle was mentioned once more, and the itch flared up fleetingly again. There was the suggestion to talk elsewhere, and to find the others that were with them at the castle. Herbert whole-heartedly agreed. He was about to voice so, when the short man seemed to have a breakdown, likely triggered by the mention of said castle. Herbert had no doubt it was awfully traumatic.

The confidence and semblance of composure was lost, and spittle and gibberish flew from his mouth in equal volumes. He even seemed to think they were underwater. Herbert found himself quite frightened, and wondered where the hospital staff was to sedate this man. He ended by introducing himself.

Herbert was quick to try to let this ticking time bomb explode far away from him. “Pleasure to meet you Mr Fitzgerald, however I am really rather tired, so would appreciate the chance to rest, by myself. Alone.” His ingratiating smile had slipped back on.

“I’m sure you understand.”
I shall post later today.

Edit: Tomorrow.

Double edit: Monday... maybe. Feel free to post before me also.
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