Elfen High 2 (OOC 8, Closed, Will it Hurt?)

[Nationstatelandsville]

I appear to have caught a sort of cold. This is highly irritating. I'll make the attempt to post if I can do so without squeezing.

Your body is crumbling, Khan.

Simply give in.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

I appear to have caught a sort of cold. This is highly irritating. I'll make the attempt to post if I can do so without squeezing.

Your body is crumbling, Khan.

Simply give in.

My people do not "give in".

[Constaniana]

Your body is crumbling, Khan.

Simply give in.

My people do not "give in".

And your determination is backed with NUCLEAR WEAPONS!

[Nightkill the Emperor]

My people do not "give in".

And your determination is backed with NUCLEAR WEAPONS!

When you pause and think about that, it's terrifying.

[Constaniana]

And your determination is backed with NUCLEAR WEAPONS!

When you pause and think about that, it's terrifying.

Ghandi is a scary wee bugger. I'm just glad he isn't in my current Civ IV game.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

When you pause and think about that, it's terrifying.

Ghandi is a scary wee bugger. I'm just glad he isn't in my current Civ IV game.

*Gandhi

[Astrolinium]

Ghandi is a scary wee bugger. I'm just glad he isn't in my current Civ IV game.

*Gandhi

Gandhsunheit.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

[Esternial]

(Image)

Saw something similar about America vs. Europe.

I never found those jokes funny, because I know the fucked-up street patterns is due to a gradual expansion of settlements, whereas the grid pattern is the result of a planned urban city.

[Nationstatelandsville]

(Image)

Saw something similar about America vs. Europe.

I never found those jokes funny, because I know the fucked-up street patterns is due to a gradual expansion of settlements, whereas the grid pattern is the result of a planned urban city.

Hey, so do I, and I still think you Europeans fucked up.

[Nude East Ireland]

Your body is crumbling, Khan.

Simply give in.

My people do not "give in".

Your people simply "get in". It's how you multiply.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

My people do not "give in".

Your people simply "get in". It's how you multiply.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

You should all write oneshots. Oneshots are cool.

Remind me tomorrow!

Done.

[Esternial]

Saw something similar about America vs. Europe.

I never found those jokes funny, because I know the fucked-up street patterns is due to a gradual expansion of settlements, whereas the grid pattern is the result of a planned urban city.

Hey, so do I, and I still think you Europeans fucked up.

Well...your face!

Remind me tomorrow!

Done.

But it's nearly bedtime D:

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Seriously, you should all do oneshots. Oneshots are cool.

I'll also be heading off to apply some of my nicotine patches and then see if I'm up for a post.

[Esternial]

Seriously, you should all do oneshots. Oneshots are cool.

I'll also be heading off to apply some of my nicotine patches and then see if I'm up for a post.

I can't do so on command.

I wasn't feeling very Flemish-Nationalistic today. My Walloon-bashing would have been sub-par.

[Astrolinium]

Seriously, you should all do oneshots. Oneshots are cool.

Later.

I might be feeling more in an "essay" mood, though.

[Esternial]

Whenever I use "lass" in a sentence, I immediately read it with Brynjolf's (Skyrim) voice.

[Nude East Ireland]

"Tonight is a foul night indeed."

The bog was shrouded in darkness, with clouds of grey blocking out the moon and stars. Slowly the two men trudged their way through the mud, their boots entirely covered in the residue of the Earth. The only light was the flame in their lanterns, which silently flickered in the night.

The first Scot looked to his friend. "How far is it to Forres?"

The Scots came to a stop, as the light of their lanterns showed them three figures standing in the lonely swamp. The first figure appeared similar to a man; though bloated, hairless, and naked. Its eyes were black dots, like buttons sewn into its head, and saliva dripped from its large mouth. The second was short, skinny, with messy green hair and teeth filed to resemble the sharpest of daggers. The third was a woman, clothed in a tight gown. Her locks were soft and beautiful, and her eyes entrancing; she was seeping with beauty from every seductive pore.

"What are these creatures?" the first Scot - known by the name Banquo - asked, his hand falling to the grip of his sword. "They do not look like they belong on this Earth; yet they stand here." The five stood silent, as Banquo's grip tightened. "Do you understand me?"

The second Scot stood still, though the light danced wildly against his body. "Speak, if you can."

"Hail, Macbeth! All hail the Thane of Glamis!" the first figure - the bloated one - shouted, saliva splattering into the mud.

"Hail, Macbeth! All hail the Thane of Cawdor!" the second said.

"Hail, Macbeth, the King of times not-yet-arrived," the third continued, her voice soft and almost soothing.

The two Scots were silent, until Banquo smirked. "Fortune-tellers?" he asked. "Can you see my fate as well?"

The three exchanged glances, before the third smiled. "Indeed," she said, as she approached the two men. "You are the father to a line of great Kings, Banquo. All hail, Macbeth and Banquo."

Macbeth stepped forward through the mud. "Thane of Glamis, yes, but I am not the Thane of Cawdor. If you speak the truth, tell me more! I demand to know."

His words fell on deaf ears, as the three had vanished. Macbeth turned to Banquo, and the two both smiled. "Father to a line of Kings?" Macbeth asked.

"King yourself," Banquo replied. The two let out laughter, as they huddled next to each other; they had only just remembered the frigid air of their native Scotland. "And Thane of Cawdor."

"I think we may have had a little too much to drink," Banquo replied. Macbeth smiled. "Perhaps, my friend." The two turned towards the sound of footsteps, belonging to fellow Scotsmen.

"Hail, Macbeth!" they said in unison, as they approached the light of the lanterns. "The King is pleased with your success on the battlefield."

"We have been sent to give you His Majesty's thanks-"

"And," interrupted Ross - one of the two -, "a title that His Majesty has decided to place upon you."

"A title?" Macbeth asked.

"Indeed," Ross replied. The two nobles pressed their fists against their hearts and bowed.

"Hail, Macbeth! Thane of Cawdor!"

---

"Something is wrong, master?" the young apprentice asked, rubbing his tired eyes with his wrist.

The master - a man looking of his thirties who sported an impressive beard - nodded. "Yes, I've sensed a presence that I haven't felt since... well, that's not important. I'm heading for Scotland."

"Scotland?"

"Yes," he replied. "You think you can keep things orderly here while I'm gone?"

"If I'm lucky."

The master smirked. "Right. I'll be gone for some time, but I'll try to write. If the King needs another healing session, you have my technique correct?"

"Yes, sir," the apprentice replied.

"Very good, Edward. Don't wait up." The master picked up his bag, and closed the door. The morning air was cold, though he didn't mind. He began walking down the street, passing an older woman on his way.

He smiled as he approached, though when he passed her he adopted a face of annoyance. "Good morning, Mr. Crowley!" she greeted.

"It's never a good morning," he muttered.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

"Tonight is a foul night indeed."

The bog was shrouded in darkness, with clouds of grey blocking out the moon and stars. Slowly the two men trudged their way through the mud, their boots entirely covered in the residue of the Earth. The only light was the flame in their lanterns, which silently flickered in the night.

The first Scot looked to his friend. "How far is it to Forres?"

The Scots came to a stop, as the light of their lanterns showed them three figures standing in the lonely swamp. The first figure appeared similar to a man; though bloated, hairless, and naked. Its eyes were black dots, like buttons sewn into its head, and saliva dripped from its large mouth. The second was short, skinny, with messy green hair and teeth filed to resemble the sharpest of daggers. The third was a woman, clothed in a tight gown. Her locks were soft and beautiful, and her eyes entrancing; she was seeping with beauty from every seductive pore.

"What are these creatures?" the first Scot - known by the name Banquo - asked, his hand falling to the grip of his sword. "They do not look like they belong on this Earth; yet they stand here." The five stood silent, as Banquo's grip tightened. "Do you understand me?"

The second Scot stood still, though the light danced wildly against his body. "Speak, if you can."

"Hail, Macbeth! All hail the Thane of Glamis!" the first figure - the bloated one - shouted, saliva splattering into the mud.

"Hail, Macbeth! All hail the Thane of Cawdor!" the second said.

"Hail, Macbeth, the King of times not-yet-arrived," the third continued, her voice soft and almost soothing.

The two Scots were silent, until Banquo smirked. "Fortune-tellers?" he asked. "Can you see my fate as well?"

The three exchanged glances, before the third smiled. "Indeed," she said, as she approached the two men. "You are the father to a line of great Kings, Banquo. All hail, Macbeth and Banquo."

Macbeth stepped forward through the mud. "Thane of Glamis, yes, but I am not the Thane of Cawdor. If you speak the truth, tell me more! I demand to know."

His words fell on deaf ears, as the three had vanished. Macbeth turned to Banquo, and the two both smiled. "Father to a line of Kings?" Macbeth asked.

"King yourself," Banquo replied. The two let out laughter, as they huddled next to each other; they had only just remembered the frigid air of their native Scotland. "And Thane of Cawdor."

"I think we may have had a little too much to drink," Banquo replied. Macbeth smiled. "Perhaps, my friend." The two turned towards the sound of footsteps, belonging to fellow Scotsmen.

"Hail, Macbeth!" they said in unison, as they approached the light of the lanterns. "The King is pleased with your success on the battlefield."

"We have been sent to give you His Majesty's thanks-"

"And," interrupted Ross - one of the two -, "a title that His Majesty has decided to place upon you."

"A title?" Macbeth asked.

"Indeed," Ross replied. The two nobles pressed their fists against their hearts and bowed.

"Hail, Macbeth! Thane of Cawdor!"

---

"Something is wrong, master?" the young apprentice asked, rubbing his tired eyes with his wrist.

The master - a man looking of his thirties who sported an impressive beard - nodded. "Yes, I've sensed a presence that I haven't felt since... well, that's not important. I'm heading for Scotland."

"Scotland?"

"Yes," he replied. "You think you can keep things orderly here while I'm gone?"

"If I'm lucky."

The master smirked. "Right. I'll be gone for some time, but I'll try to write. If the King needs another healing session, you have my technique correct?"

"Yes, sir," the apprentice replied.

"Very good, Edward. Don't wait up." The master picked up his bag, and closed the door. The morning air was cold, though he didn't mind. He began walking down the street, passing an older woman on his way.

He smiled as he approached, though when he passed her he adopted a face of annoyance. "Good morning, Mr. Crowley!" she greeted.

"It's never a good morning," he muttered.

I like it. I'll throw it in the oneshots post.

[Individuality-ness]

Vectors are BULLSHIT. So posting might be delayed.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Vectors are BULLSHIT. So posting might be delayed.

No problem. I haven't even actually replied to you today, my nose is clogged up.

[Individuality-ness]

Vectors are BULLSHIT. So posting might be delayed.

No problem. I haven't even actually replied to you today, my nose is clogged up.

Sorry about your nose.

[Nightkill the Emperor]

No problem. I haven't even actually replied to you today, my nose is clogged up.

Sorry about your nose.

My nose will be very sorry as well.

[Nightkill the Emperor]