Sunday, March 6, 2011
Irish Slang & stuff :), Part 2.
I don't know if Aisling sounds like this or not, but she'd definitely be familiar with the vocabulary. All I know of this YouTuber is she's NOT from Dublin, but I don't know where she is from.
I don't think I can bring Brendan to say "What's the craic?", though...however authentically Irish that sounds...
And now for something completely different: Irish Slang and Explanations
Brendan studied in Cork and might sound a little like this. But he does have more of the Dublin accent. He was born there, after all.
By contrast, my Cthulhu character, Seamus O'Hearne, is a Cork native.
We're on a mission from gods...Part 2
So we had to opt for Plan B. It was agreed that Gunnar would sneak into the compound first and make a sniper's nest on top of the school's auditorium building. Nate advised he would accompany Gunnar inside and try to make contact with the Scion kids and lead them to safety. The idea was that once Nate located the kids, the rest of us, with mighty Jack leading the way, would launch the main frontal assault and give Nate the distraction he needed to get away with the Scion kids.
Gunnar and Nate sized up the security situation for about an hour. They noticed a crucial gap in the change of guards rotation and exploited it. Gunnar texted that he was in position, and Nate reported he was entering the student dorms. He texted us regularly "...found another one.", etc.
It seemed like an eternity before we got the text from Nate: "Have kids, but need a distraction. Now." Jack gunned the engine of his van and motioned to Laurel to follow. I twitched in the passenger's seat beside her, ready for action but also nervous as hell. I hadn't felt this keyed up since the UN Peacekeeping missions in my youth, serving with the Irish Defence Forces. Sure, I'd been on drug raids in Dublin and engaged in foot chases that ended with a brawl and my slapping cuffs on. I'd even been in some hostage rescue situations, bomb threat situations with the Emergency Response Unit (ERU) of Garda. But I was still feeling jumpy and ill at ease.
Laurel and Nate had both performed rituals from their pantheons beforehand, saying they would help us in battle; I knew of similar rituals from The Tuatha, so I knew this to be true. I could see the concern in Laurel's eyes as she glanced at me. I knew what she must be thinking, making a mental diagnosis...
PTSD
Yeah, probably so. Feck all I could do about it right now.
When Jack rolled up to the main gate and a guard approached, Jack used the vehicle's door like a battering ram and sent the mall-ninja SWAT wannabe flying back. At the same instant, Gunnar's Barrett sniper rifle roared to life and the other Guard at the fence took a .50 cal round to the back of one of his shoulders. SHOWTIME!
I sprang out of the van and drew a bead on the man who had just been hit, while Nevermore flew in high arc, diving down just after I released a volley from my Sig Sauer P226. Not all my shots penetrated but I definitely had his attention now. With a magic bird in his face and a few of my bullets in him, he tried to raise his weapon but his shots went wild, missing everyone. I took more careful aim and dropped him with my next volley as Jack continued to physically assault the gate and, holy hell, now he was hoisting it up as high as his waist.
Laurel dropped the man on her side and shouted to me: "Phalanx!!"
"Ah, the Greek way..." I shouted back.
Laurel said "Right!!!"
Laurel and I took cover behind the massive chunk of fence that Jack was hefting. More camp guards were pouring out from the security office and opening up, beginning to splinter the fence...Some of them aimed where they knew Jack must be, given the position of his legs, but Jack just shrugged off the shots, which did no damage to him. The gate in splinters, Jack rushed forward to punch the nearest guard. Laurel let loose a mean but only marginally effective volley with her M-16, while took my time to line up a shot with my Sig. I took my next man down but his buddy drew a bead on me at the same time and unleashed a hellish volley of M-16 fire.
I don't know why, but in that instant I flashed back to a moment when I was on the Trinity College Rugby team. We were playing a tough team from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Tensions were high, and the NI team had really clobbered us in the first half of play. After a motivational speech from our coach...not unlike Nate's pep talk before this battle...we fought our way slowly back to a tie game. With seconds remaining, I slipped past the NI defenders and sprinted and dove into their goal to score the winning point. I felt as if I was re-enacting that moment...I did feel a few rounds from the rifle slam into my body, but this time my Irish luck came through for me...no penetration yet. I quickly assessed the tactical situation and decided I needed to gain a height advantage; I lept up onto the auditorium roof in a single holy bound, holstered my P226, unslung my M-16 and took up a crouching position right next to Gunnar.
"Hey Brendan, what's up?" said Gunnar quickly without looking up, getting ready to squeeze off another shot.
"Got shot--not as bad this time." I replied in staccato.
Gunnar finished off the rest of the attackers before I could let loose with my M-16.
I pointed to the roof of the student housing and Gunnar read my thoughts and nodded, both of us leaping over to the next building. From our vantage point on the roof, we could see a new platoon of bad guys advancing on our position from the Teacher housing complex/Administration area. I spotted our quarry, Father O'Brien, at the back of the formation and pointed him out. Gunnar took aim with the Barrett and let loose a volley, aimed at the frocked fuck's head. Everything seemed to slow down and I swear I watched the bullet track and ever so slightly veer off course, where it struck and killed one of the rifle toting guards instead. Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph what the in the name of hell was THAT? I glanced down at my Garda nightstick and said to myself "try dodging this when I stick it up your Yank arse, ye bastard son of Erin."; The opposing platoon split into two squads, each heading for a door of our building. I let loose a volley of full auto fire against the squad headed for the cafeteria below, but only managed to wound and slow them down. I saw Father O'Brien fleeing back into the Admin complex. Gunnar was slightly more effective with the other squad, but still only managed to inflict some wounds and slow them down. Both squads breached the doors and I could hear the gun battle beginning to rage below us. Gunnar looked as though he wanted to jump down and join the fight, but I was still filled with rage watching the coattails of the fleeing priest disappear into the administration complex.
"That fucker has to be stopped before he gets away..." I yelled to Gunnar.
"We should do this as a team" Gunnar protested, thinking of Laurel fighting for her life below us.
"I'm going NOW!", I insisted
Gunnar paused for a split second then retorted "I'm coming with you."
We both lept from the dormitory roof, and I activated my Gae Bolga in midair, but it must've thrown me off balance a bit, because I landed rather hard and it knocked the wind out of me and I stumbled a bit. Gunnar hit the ground more gracefully and was already speeding down the passage when I had regained my balance and looked up.
I could see down into the passage ahead that there was a fork; Gunnar hugged the left wall, and pointed his rifle down the right fork when he approached, but evidently heard Father O'brien running up the other passage and yelled back to me "He's headed left."; I charged forward in pursuit.
I was always several steps behind Gunnar; he had already turned the next corner when I reached the first.
"Damn it." I cursed, to no one in particular, and kept running.
When I cleared the next corner, I felt more than heard a massive explosion ahead and saw Gunnar rocket backwards into one of the passage walls in front of me, propelled by flames and a shock wave and shrapnel that I could see and hear embedding itself into the walls, into the ceiling and into Gunnar.
As he nonchalantly picked the still smoking shrapnel from his face, he casually commented that he'd evidently turned the good father into an involuntary suicide bomber. I was happy for the win, but felt cheated from being able to skewer that frocked fat fuck for myself. I helped Gunnar gather the birthrights and we headed back to the student dormitory. Knowing Jack and Nate and Laurel, and some new Scion named Camilla, I figured (correctly) that the battle would be over already. I was happy to be proved correct.
Gunnar and I stepped into the cafeteria as one of the children were explaining something about the dead girl named Brigette and said that she says a normal person needs her glasses to see her. I recalled that one of the birthrights we recovered were a pair of glasses with a missing lens...
"You mean this?" I said, handing them to Laurel...Laurel took them from my hands and put them on her face and I saw an expression of shock, amazement and surprise cross her face. She began a conversation with this invisible entity from beyond. Turns out we'd had another spectral member of our party for some time now. Brigette asked us to return her corpse to New Orleans for a proper burial...which we agreed to.
"Just in time for Mardis Gras", I thought. "That's Grand."
We made introductions and returned the birthrights to their owners.
Nate and Gunnar went outside to bring the vans around.
We began to clear the kids out when one of the boys bumped into one of the girls, and she wheeled around and stabbed him with her trident. Laurel and the student named Camilla (who, we learned was 27 and working under-cover for her pantheon and only *looked* 18) managed to break up the fight...the children seemed dazed and amnesiac about what had just happened. We removed their birthrights as a safety precaution for now. Gunnar texted to know WTF was taking so long, and we informed him to get his ass back in here; Nate, too.
We gave them both an updated Sit-Rep on what had just transpired in their absence.
I perhaps thought I should invoke the ability I have called "Smoking Mirror"...by staring at the moon I can get a bird's eye view of the land...but before I could mention this, Laurel had already launched Nevermore aloft on a recon mission. Nevermore located a man on a distant hill. Gunnar and Nate and Camilia bounded back outside, while Laurel, Jack and I looked after the kids.
A few minutes later, Gunnar came back in and let us know they found Timothy and he blew his head off. Gunnar said he'd called Timothy on the phone before shooting him, and Tim had told him, as if by divine command, to drop his weapon, but Gunnar said "no" and dropped him with a well placed sniper round. Nate revealed all the evidence he collected from Timothy's person. Security consultant my pasty white Irish arse. I had a suspicion this Timothy was too good to be true. Gunnar seemed rather out of it, though. Like he'd reached a certain point mentally and just broke. His eyes had that 1000 yard stare I'd seen before in IRA men who'd fought too many battles. He was mumbling, not talking with the same confidence I'd always known up to this point. He absently even mentioned wrapping things up and heading back to Chicago. The hurt expression on Laurel's face in reaction to this made me wince as well. We agreed to split up into the two vans. I felt obligated to ride along with Nate and young Brendan Gair in the other van. I felt grateful for being spared the long awkward silences that were bound to await the passengers in the other vehicle. I also felt a sense of obligation to look after young Brendan. Sure, he was a Yank and only of distant Irish heritage...but he was still of The Tuatha...and we Irish have to stick together in this cruel world.
Gunnar and Nate sized up the security situation for about an hour. They noticed a crucial gap in the change of guards rotation and exploited it. Gunnar texted that he was in position, and Nate reported he was entering the student dorms. He texted us regularly "...found another one.", etc.
It seemed like an eternity before we got the text from Nate: "Have kids, but need a distraction. Now." Jack gunned the engine of his van and motioned to Laurel to follow. I twitched in the passenger's seat beside her, ready for action but also nervous as hell. I hadn't felt this keyed up since the UN Peacekeeping missions in my youth, serving with the Irish Defence Forces. Sure, I'd been on drug raids in Dublin and engaged in foot chases that ended with a brawl and my slapping cuffs on. I'd even been in some hostage rescue situations, bomb threat situations with the Emergency Response Unit (ERU) of Garda. But I was still feeling jumpy and ill at ease.
Laurel and Nate had both performed rituals from their pantheons beforehand, saying they would help us in battle; I knew of similar rituals from The Tuatha, so I knew this to be true. I could see the concern in Laurel's eyes as she glanced at me. I knew what she must be thinking, making a mental diagnosis...
PTSD
Yeah, probably so. Feck all I could do about it right now.
When Jack rolled up to the main gate and a guard approached, Jack used the vehicle's door like a battering ram and sent the mall-ninja SWAT wannabe flying back. At the same instant, Gunnar's Barrett sniper rifle roared to life and the other Guard at the fence took a .50 cal round to the back of one of his shoulders. SHOWTIME!
I sprang out of the van and drew a bead on the man who had just been hit, while Nevermore flew in high arc, diving down just after I released a volley from my Sig Sauer P226. Not all my shots penetrated but I definitely had his attention now. With a magic bird in his face and a few of my bullets in him, he tried to raise his weapon but his shots went wild, missing everyone. I took more careful aim and dropped him with my next volley as Jack continued to physically assault the gate and, holy hell, now he was hoisting it up as high as his waist.
Laurel dropped the man on her side and shouted to me: "Phalanx!!"
"Ah, the Greek way..." I shouted back.
Laurel said "Right!!!"
Laurel and I took cover behind the massive chunk of fence that Jack was hefting. More camp guards were pouring out from the security office and opening up, beginning to splinter the fence...Some of them aimed where they knew Jack must be, given the position of his legs, but Jack just shrugged off the shots, which did no damage to him. The gate in splinters, Jack rushed forward to punch the nearest guard. Laurel let loose a mean but only marginally effective volley with her M-16, while took my time to line up a shot with my Sig. I took my next man down but his buddy drew a bead on me at the same time and unleashed a hellish volley of M-16 fire.
I don't know why, but in that instant I flashed back to a moment when I was on the Trinity College Rugby team. We were playing a tough team from Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Tensions were high, and the NI team had really clobbered us in the first half of play. After a motivational speech from our coach...not unlike Nate's pep talk before this battle...we fought our way slowly back to a tie game. With seconds remaining, I slipped past the NI defenders and sprinted and dove into their goal to score the winning point. I felt as if I was re-enacting that moment...I did feel a few rounds from the rifle slam into my body, but this time my Irish luck came through for me...no penetration yet. I quickly assessed the tactical situation and decided I needed to gain a height advantage; I lept up onto the auditorium roof in a single holy bound, holstered my P226, unslung my M-16 and took up a crouching position right next to Gunnar.
"Hey Brendan, what's up?" said Gunnar quickly without looking up, getting ready to squeeze off another shot.
"Got shot--not as bad this time." I replied in staccato.
Gunnar finished off the rest of the attackers before I could let loose with my M-16.
I pointed to the roof of the student housing and Gunnar read my thoughts and nodded, both of us leaping over to the next building. From our vantage point on the roof, we could see a new platoon of bad guys advancing on our position from the Teacher housing complex/Administration area. I spotted our quarry, Father O'Brien, at the back of the formation and pointed him out. Gunnar took aim with the Barrett and let loose a volley, aimed at the frocked fuck's head. Everything seemed to slow down and I swear I watched the bullet track and ever so slightly veer off course, where it struck and killed one of the rifle toting guards instead. Jesus, Mary, and Holy Saint Joseph what the in the name of hell was THAT? I glanced down at my Garda nightstick and said to myself "try dodging this when I stick it up your Yank arse, ye bastard son of Erin."; The opposing platoon split into two squads, each heading for a door of our building. I let loose a volley of full auto fire against the squad headed for the cafeteria below, but only managed to wound and slow them down. I saw Father O'Brien fleeing back into the Admin complex. Gunnar was slightly more effective with the other squad, but still only managed to inflict some wounds and slow them down. Both squads breached the doors and I could hear the gun battle beginning to rage below us. Gunnar looked as though he wanted to jump down and join the fight, but I was still filled with rage watching the coattails of the fleeing priest disappear into the administration complex.
"That fucker has to be stopped before he gets away..." I yelled to Gunnar.
"We should do this as a team" Gunnar protested, thinking of Laurel fighting for her life below us.
"I'm going NOW!", I insisted
Gunnar paused for a split second then retorted "I'm coming with you."
We both lept from the dormitory roof, and I activated my Gae Bolga in midair, but it must've thrown me off balance a bit, because I landed rather hard and it knocked the wind out of me and I stumbled a bit. Gunnar hit the ground more gracefully and was already speeding down the passage when I had regained my balance and looked up.
I could see down into the passage ahead that there was a fork; Gunnar hugged the left wall, and pointed his rifle down the right fork when he approached, but evidently heard Father O'brien running up the other passage and yelled back to me "He's headed left."; I charged forward in pursuit.
I was always several steps behind Gunnar; he had already turned the next corner when I reached the first.
"Damn it." I cursed, to no one in particular, and kept running.
When I cleared the next corner, I felt more than heard a massive explosion ahead and saw Gunnar rocket backwards into one of the passage walls in front of me, propelled by flames and a shock wave and shrapnel that I could see and hear embedding itself into the walls, into the ceiling and into Gunnar.
As he nonchalantly picked the still smoking shrapnel from his face, he casually commented that he'd evidently turned the good father into an involuntary suicide bomber. I was happy for the win, but felt cheated from being able to skewer that frocked fat fuck for myself. I helped Gunnar gather the birthrights and we headed back to the student dormitory. Knowing Jack and Nate and Laurel, and some new Scion named Camilla, I figured (correctly) that the battle would be over already. I was happy to be proved correct.
Gunnar and I stepped into the cafeteria as one of the children were explaining something about the dead girl named Brigette and said that she says a normal person needs her glasses to see her. I recalled that one of the birthrights we recovered were a pair of glasses with a missing lens...
"You mean this?" I said, handing them to Laurel...Laurel took them from my hands and put them on her face and I saw an expression of shock, amazement and surprise cross her face. She began a conversation with this invisible entity from beyond. Turns out we'd had another spectral member of our party for some time now. Brigette asked us to return her corpse to New Orleans for a proper burial...which we agreed to.
"Just in time for Mardis Gras", I thought. "That's Grand."
We made introductions and returned the birthrights to their owners.
Nate and Gunnar went outside to bring the vans around.
We began to clear the kids out when one of the boys bumped into one of the girls, and she wheeled around and stabbed him with her trident. Laurel and the student named Camilla (who, we learned was 27 and working under-cover for her pantheon and only *looked* 18) managed to break up the fight...the children seemed dazed and amnesiac about what had just happened. We removed their birthrights as a safety precaution for now. Gunnar texted to know WTF was taking so long, and we informed him to get his ass back in here; Nate, too.
We gave them both an updated Sit-Rep on what had just transpired in their absence.
I perhaps thought I should invoke the ability I have called "Smoking Mirror"...by staring at the moon I can get a bird's eye view of the land...but before I could mention this, Laurel had already launched Nevermore aloft on a recon mission. Nevermore located a man on a distant hill. Gunnar and Nate and Camilia bounded back outside, while Laurel, Jack and I looked after the kids.
A few minutes later, Gunnar came back in and let us know they found Timothy and he blew his head off. Gunnar said he'd called Timothy on the phone before shooting him, and Tim had told him, as if by divine command, to drop his weapon, but Gunnar said "no" and dropped him with a well placed sniper round. Nate revealed all the evidence he collected from Timothy's person. Security consultant my pasty white Irish arse. I had a suspicion this Timothy was too good to be true. Gunnar seemed rather out of it, though. Like he'd reached a certain point mentally and just broke. His eyes had that 1000 yard stare I'd seen before in IRA men who'd fought too many battles. He was mumbling, not talking with the same confidence I'd always known up to this point. He absently even mentioned wrapping things up and heading back to Chicago. The hurt expression on Laurel's face in reaction to this made me wince as well. We agreed to split up into the two vans. I felt obligated to ride along with Nate and young Brendan Gair in the other van. I felt grateful for being spared the long awkward silences that were bound to await the passengers in the other vehicle. I also felt a sense of obligation to look after young Brendan. Sure, he was a Yank and only of distant Irish heritage...but he was still of The Tuatha...and we Irish have to stick together in this cruel world.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
We're on a mission from gods...Part 1
(from Brendan's journal)
I was really hoping Aisling could help us in this upcoming assault. Alas the contractor info on who built this compound was sketchy, and I had trouble trying to track it down. I'm convinced I could've done it if given enough time and ability to concentrate...but having Jack, Nate and Gunnar asking me "didya find it yet?" every five FECKING minutes was NOT helping me. I'd be damned if I was going to send Aisling in blind without proper intelligence. Unless I could tell her exactly where to go, exactly what to do, and exactly where to hide, there as no way I was going to risk her life on this mission. Aisling, Ogma bless her, protested, argued she could find the power switch on her own...her loyalty to me nearly brings me to tears at times...but I said no. She started to cry and I switched to the soothing Irish Gaelic of our native land...
"Aisling, a thousand pardons my sweet, but alas, a thousand times no. I must ground you for this mission; I can't risk your life. I've asked Laurel to look after you if I should die in the battle ahead. She will ensure your safe passage back to Erin's shores...back to County Galway."
Aisling burst into tears and sobs and said "No! Brendan no!! ...I...Brendan, I love you!"; I was really glad to be having this conversation in Gaelic, to spare Aisling any embarrassment. Or perhaps myself...I could hear the sincerity in her voice and read it on her face. This was more than sisterly/brotherly love in her eyes, and I found it unsettling. At least this was all in Gaelic, sparing the others the awkwardness of this at least somewhat.
"I know, sweetness, I know. And because I love you, too, 'tis why you're going to sit this one out. You are to listen to Laurel and do whatever she says if I untimely pass. I trust her, and I ask you to as well." I said to Aisling, brushing her hair our of her eyes, wiping her micro-sized tears with my littlest finger.
"I don't like the way you look at her..." blurted Aisling in a huff, averting her eyes from me. I blushed myself, feeling a pang of discomforting embarrassment mixed with unexpected reactionary jealousy of my own and butterflies in my stomach.
"Aisling, she has another, there's nothing between us." I reassured, lying like the two-bit North Dublin hoods I arrest regularly back home.
Aisling glared at me, her green eyes burning holes into mine.
"I KNOW you like her Brendan."
"What's this?" I protested. "What are ye like? Do you think me to be the Son of Angus? A regular Fenian Casanova for feck's sake??"
"Brains are sexy to some women, Brendan...and she's a doctor; last time I checked humans had to be pretty smart to make it through any medical school, much less UCL-of-Feckin' A.", Aisling shrieked.
"That's enough, Aisling!" I roared. "...'Tis decided, yer sitting this one out, and Laurel's to ensure your safe passage back to Ireland if I die; I don't plan on dyin' so you can continue this tirade then, once the Scion kids are safe and not one minute before."
With that, I grabbed Aisling quickly but gently yet firmly in my fist and put her back inside my flask that is her home away from home.
I looked up and noticed everyone else look away quickly, and there was nothing but awkward silence for a while. Even though our conversation had been in Gaelic, I'm sure Laurel heard her name, and "UCL-of-feckin' A" Aisling had said in English, for emphasis. Whereas up until this moment I found it hard to take my eyes off her, for the time being, I just couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with Laurel for at least an hour afterwards.
We prepped for the assault. Gunnar had *acquired* a new, if beat-up looking white van with...Tijuana license plates. Nate rolled his eyes and just muttered "Don't tell me; I'm sure I *don't* want to know..."
It was going to be a long night ahead of us.
I was really hoping Aisling could help us in this upcoming assault. Alas the contractor info on who built this compound was sketchy, and I had trouble trying to track it down. I'm convinced I could've done it if given enough time and ability to concentrate...but having Jack, Nate and Gunnar asking me "didya find it yet?" every five FECKING minutes was NOT helping me. I'd be damned if I was going to send Aisling in blind without proper intelligence. Unless I could tell her exactly where to go, exactly what to do, and exactly where to hide, there as no way I was going to risk her life on this mission. Aisling, Ogma bless her, protested, argued she could find the power switch on her own...her loyalty to me nearly brings me to tears at times...but I said no. She started to cry and I switched to the soothing Irish Gaelic of our native land...
"Aisling, a thousand pardons my sweet, but alas, a thousand times no. I must ground you for this mission; I can't risk your life. I've asked Laurel to look after you if I should die in the battle ahead. She will ensure your safe passage back to Erin's shores...back to County Galway."
Aisling burst into tears and sobs and said "No! Brendan no!! ...I...Brendan, I love you!"; I was really glad to be having this conversation in Gaelic, to spare Aisling any embarrassment. Or perhaps myself...I could hear the sincerity in her voice and read it on her face. This was more than sisterly/brotherly love in her eyes, and I found it unsettling. At least this was all in Gaelic, sparing the others the awkwardness of this at least somewhat.
"I know, sweetness, I know. And because I love you, too, 'tis why you're going to sit this one out. You are to listen to Laurel and do whatever she says if I untimely pass. I trust her, and I ask you to as well." I said to Aisling, brushing her hair our of her eyes, wiping her micro-sized tears with my littlest finger.
"I don't like the way you look at her..." blurted Aisling in a huff, averting her eyes from me. I blushed myself, feeling a pang of discomforting embarrassment mixed with unexpected reactionary jealousy of my own and butterflies in my stomach.
"Aisling, she has another, there's nothing between us." I reassured, lying like the two-bit North Dublin hoods I arrest regularly back home.
Aisling glared at me, her green eyes burning holes into mine.
"I KNOW you like her Brendan."
"What's this?" I protested. "What are ye like? Do you think me to be the Son of Angus? A regular Fenian Casanova for feck's sake??"
"Brains are sexy to some women, Brendan...and she's a doctor; last time I checked humans had to be pretty smart to make it through any medical school, much less UCL-of-Feckin' A.", Aisling shrieked.
"That's enough, Aisling!" I roared. "...'Tis decided, yer sitting this one out, and Laurel's to ensure your safe passage back to Ireland if I die; I don't plan on dyin' so you can continue this tirade then, once the Scion kids are safe and not one minute before."
With that, I grabbed Aisling quickly but gently yet firmly in my fist and put her back inside my flask that is her home away from home.
I looked up and noticed everyone else look away quickly, and there was nothing but awkward silence for a while. Even though our conversation had been in Gaelic, I'm sure Laurel heard her name, and "UCL-of-feckin' A" Aisling had said in English, for emphasis. Whereas up until this moment I found it hard to take my eyes off her, for the time being, I just couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with Laurel for at least an hour afterwards.
We prepped for the assault. Gunnar had *acquired* a new, if beat-up looking white van with...Tijuana license plates. Nate rolled his eyes and just muttered "Don't tell me; I'm sure I *don't* want to know..."
It was going to be a long night ahead of us.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Note from the actual Author (not Brendan)
This blog is written from the perspective of the player character Brendan O'Shea in the game Scion, currently participating in the campaign "Taking it to the Titans".
What is Scion? It's a fantasy RPG whose fictional universe is very much like our own, with one main difference. All of the Gods of Mythology are real. All. Every last one. And the player characters are all children of Gods called Scions...think Zeus, people.
If America's first President, George Washington, had been a Scion, his life history might have been more like this:
What is Scion? It's a fantasy RPG whose fictional universe is very much like our own, with one main difference. All of the Gods of Mythology are real. All. Every last one. And the player characters are all children of Gods called Scions...think Zeus, people.
If America's first President, George Washington, had been a Scion, his life history might have been more like this:
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Think of me like an Irish Sonny Crockett...
Have had some interesting conversations with Nate Prichert since I joined up with this band of Scions. He expressed some scepticism at my appearance, even after showing him my INTERPOL badge and Garda badge, commenting how my hairstyle didn't look Garda regulation to him.
I explained to the good Deputy (who is himself still uniform patrolman), I just made the rank of Investigator in 2008, and was posted to INTERPOL later that same year. I'm a plainclothes detective for the Gardai, which sometimes necessitates my going under cover.
I can't do that convincingly if I keep my hair cropped to regulation length. "Think of me like an Irish Sonny Crocket", I said; This Nate understood, and he nodded in acknowledgment. Though I suppose in style of dress I take more after Tubbs than Crocket. Although my bulletproof vest does read GARDA, that's usually worn under a shirt and not readily visible. Unfortunately THAT vest now has some .223 caliber sized holes in it now. I'll have to make due with the American tactical vests we recovered as a replacement for now.
On any given day I wear dark dress pants and a casual dark men's jacket...it's sort of like an American sport coat, I guess, only way more Euro-trash ;-) The sort of thing you wear to a Discotheque in Dublin (or Lyon). Underneath, I wear either a collared shirt (usually white or grey or pale lime green) with no tie or else any number of t-shirts, many with patriotic Irish imagery. My station chief did once chew me out for purchasing shirts off the Sinn Fein website using my work computer, since it provoked unwelcome inquiries from M.I.6 and G2...as I knew it would, actually. That chief was a right eejit, and I knew how to push his buttons. Stupid feckin' culchie from County Kerry. He didn't last long, thankfully, and was replaced with a better man.
Anyway, rounding out my attire, I wear comfortable black dress shoes...the kind worn by waiters and other working people on their feet all day. I also am never without my wireframe glasses. I had Lasik done a number of years ago and no longer require corrective lenses...but these are no ordinary glasses. They're ostensibly prescription sunglasses...and they are of the "transitions" variety, that is, grow darker the brighter it is outside, and are completely transparent/clear after dark. They are the means by which Ogma has given me to be able to use an ability known as "night eyes", which should prove to be a tactical advantage in the upcoming assault.
That and having grown up always wearing glasses, I just find them fashionable and don't care to part with that look. Vanity on my part? Perhaps. But others seem to like it as well. Fits in with my bookish, "academic" persona, I'm told.
The men's jacket moreover helps me with the concealment of my Garda-issue Sig Sauer P226 that I wear in an Inside-the-waistband (IWB) concealment holster on my right hip. I also conceal my police baton behind my left hip. I've been known to enter rooms on missions with the baton in my left hand and the pistol in my right. It's how I should have been in that hotel room back in Fresno. It's a bit atypical for a plainclothes investigator to carry a riot stick more commonly worn by uniformed patrol officers, but it's also atypical for such a riot stick to transform itself into a massive, mythic spear once wielded by the mightiest hero of Ulster in the distant past, too. I tell my fellow Gardai it's a symbol of my moral authority as an officer of the law. Not like I can tell them the truth about what it's really for and what it really does, at least not to them. Not on my day job.
I held back from wielding my spear against the invading cultists...I didn't want any escaping and tipping our hand, and I didn't feel them worthy of facing Gae Bolga. Plus being shot at tends to make you react wanting to return fire instead of lunge at your attacker with a spear.
I'm sometimes amused at the undeserved reverence and deference some Americans show towards my INTERPOL badge. I'm not above taking advantage of their ignorance about what INTERPOL actually does. I do think Nate should widen his ambitions and go ahead and take the time to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI). Credentials like that could really help us down the road. Sure, it's many months for the application process and many weeks of training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, but I think it would be worth it for Nate to go through with it.
Nate needs to understand these human offices we hold are simply a means to a greater end. His joining the FBI would be instrumentally useful to us, besides being a logical career move. Nate does sometimes talk about having long wanted to be part of the US Marshall's service. While FBI would be better, I do encourage this track as well. A US Marshall in our band would be a good deal more useful than a local lawman well outside his jurisdiction most of the time. While my credentials are truly international, they don't carry much weight in the USA unless I can tie my investigation to international cartels, conspiracies, terrorist links, etc. Something INTERPOL has a real stake in. I feel awkward walking into American jails to question suspects; Thankfully Nate is pretty brazen and can act like he belongs in a place, even if he doesn't. Do have to admire the man's confidence, I'll give him that much.
Well, tis getting late, I'd best be signing off for now.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Of Aisling, and other thoughts.
My near death experience has made me think long and hard about Aisling's fate if my so-called Irish luck should run out and I end up buying the farm. What many Americans don't know is that given Ireland's long, sad history, the best that can be said of Irish luck is that if we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have luck at all.
Aisling is my wee traveling companion, a Galway country girl....who just happens to be only a few inches tall and lives most of the time in my custom whiskey hip flask. She's one of the Faerie-folk of Erin, specifically what is classified a "Sprite". Her image is featured as the bottom graphic of this journal. She was bonded to me by Ogma as my guide and traveling companion, and we've been together since I was a teen. Chronologically, she's older than me...how old, I don't ask--wouldn't be polite nor proper. But since Sprites live longer than humans, she hasn't matured much emotionally these several years. She's still as giddy and emotionally unbalanced as a 17-year old girl, just as I first met her.
On this trip I've been wracking my brains for ways to let her help, let her out of her confinement but that keep her safe at the same time. It's a definite challenge of late. She doesn't like being crammed up in the flask all the time, but so often it's for her own protection. I think intellectually she knows that, but emotionally still finds it hard to accept. She's so incredibly loyal to me.
It pains my heart to realize how irresponsible I've been with her since leaving Ireland's shores. She's a long way from home, and one of my worst fears now is being ambushed alone somewhere and killed with Aisling still bound in my hip flask...and slowly starving to death because no one knows she's there or how to let her out.
The guilt was so strong I asked Laurel out of the blue to look after Aisling if I should die in the upcoming assault. I don't think Laurel was expecting that, could see her eyes widen with surprise and alarm. I guess maybe I spoke too impulsively, but I can't help feeling a deeper emotional closeness to Laurel now. Sort of like the way wounded soldiers bond with their nurses in Army hospitals, I suppose. Shite, I've read too much feckin' Hemingway. I know that Laurel and Gunnar seem to have this thing going, whatever "it" is. I know that. I do. Still, a man can't help feeling how he feels sometimes...though I'm not sure I can put a name on what it is I do feel now, other than to say it's different now than when I first met the group.
I know I need to talk this all over with Aisling, and I know she's not going to like it, but we have to be clear on this issue. At the very least, I would like someone, preferably Laurel, to ensure Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland. Just get her to the city of Galway and she'll be fine. Aisling shouldn't be dropped off in Dublin; even though she knows the city well, she doesn't know how to get from Dublin to Galway safely on her own. I've always taken her.
Laurel's initial reservations were that she wouldn't know how to properly care for Aisling. Left unsaid was perhaps consideration of Nevermore's emotional response and possible jealousy. I guess just ensuring Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland is the most I could ask of anyone.
I don't like dwelling on any of this, but nearly dying at a hotel in California, if not THE Hotel California, has forced me to.
I do have a responsibility to Aisling to make contingency plans for her if I should die. We Scions probably all intrinsically believe we'll beat the odds, ascend to Godhood, and live forever. As the old Porgy and Bess song has it, "It ain't necessarily so".
I do look forward to sending Aisling into action to cut the power to the cultist compound. I worry about being able to collect her after the action is over. I want her to stay on scene and hide and keep sabotaging the power supply if their security forces manage to restore it the first time. We'll just have to make sure to sweep back by the main power allocation centre to collect Aisling on our way out. I don't want to have to rely on "Dad" to help me find her. He entrusted her to me, so she's my responsibility. Always has been.
It's a shame Aisling's not a full-sized human girl, as she's certainly attractive. I'm even amused when she exhibits flashes of jealousy when I flirt with other women in her presence. Even when she's pouty she's cute. But she will always be a sprite, and I will always be a part-human, part Godling Scion of Ogma.
I want her to have the best life I can provide for her, and I want to be able to spare her a violent death if at all possible. She's my scout, a second pair of eyes, but strictly a non-combatant. I thought of having her remove the CS canister, but the gas might have overwhelmed her, and there was always the possibility of her catching a stray rifle bullet, and that would've been the end of her. So instead I just held my breath and kept on fighting as best I could...and better, thanks to Laurel working her...magic...? on me, both during and after.
She touched me and now I have a hard time keeping me eyes off her, stealing a glance here, there. Gods, the guilt. It's like I'm a little Jesuit schoolboy all over again, even though I walked away from that belief system ages ago. 12 years of Catholic school sticks with you, good and bad. Part of me thinks of going to confession, laying all my troubles to a Father Rodriguez or Padre Gonzales out here in California...not because I believe any of it anymore, but just to talk about it to a third party not involved with no stake in the issue.
I need to drive these errant thoughts from my head and stay focused on the mission. Or at least grab a pint to calm my nerves. Alas, I don't think there are any friendly Irish bars between where we are now and Badger, California, or that I have time to pop into one, even if it exists. Shite.
Aisling is my wee traveling companion, a Galway country girl....who just happens to be only a few inches tall and lives most of the time in my custom whiskey hip flask. She's one of the Faerie-folk of Erin, specifically what is classified a "Sprite". Her image is featured as the bottom graphic of this journal. She was bonded to me by Ogma as my guide and traveling companion, and we've been together since I was a teen. Chronologically, she's older than me...how old, I don't ask--wouldn't be polite nor proper. But since Sprites live longer than humans, she hasn't matured much emotionally these several years. She's still as giddy and emotionally unbalanced as a 17-year old girl, just as I first met her.
On this trip I've been wracking my brains for ways to let her help, let her out of her confinement but that keep her safe at the same time. It's a definite challenge of late. She doesn't like being crammed up in the flask all the time, but so often it's for her own protection. I think intellectually she knows that, but emotionally still finds it hard to accept. She's so incredibly loyal to me.
It pains my heart to realize how irresponsible I've been with her since leaving Ireland's shores. She's a long way from home, and one of my worst fears now is being ambushed alone somewhere and killed with Aisling still bound in my hip flask...and slowly starving to death because no one knows she's there or how to let her out.
The guilt was so strong I asked Laurel out of the blue to look after Aisling if I should die in the upcoming assault. I don't think Laurel was expecting that, could see her eyes widen with surprise and alarm. I guess maybe I spoke too impulsively, but I can't help feeling a deeper emotional closeness to Laurel now. Sort of like the way wounded soldiers bond with their nurses in Army hospitals, I suppose. Shite, I've read too much feckin' Hemingway. I know that Laurel and Gunnar seem to have this thing going, whatever "it" is. I know that. I do. Still, a man can't help feeling how he feels sometimes...though I'm not sure I can put a name on what it is I do feel now, other than to say it's different now than when I first met the group.
I know I need to talk this all over with Aisling, and I know she's not going to like it, but we have to be clear on this issue. At the very least, I would like someone, preferably Laurel, to ensure Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland. Just get her to the city of Galway and she'll be fine. Aisling shouldn't be dropped off in Dublin; even though she knows the city well, she doesn't know how to get from Dublin to Galway safely on her own. I've always taken her.
Laurel's initial reservations were that she wouldn't know how to properly care for Aisling. Left unsaid was perhaps consideration of Nevermore's emotional response and possible jealousy. I guess just ensuring Aisling's safe passage back to Ireland is the most I could ask of anyone.
I don't like dwelling on any of this, but nearly dying at a hotel in California, if not THE Hotel California, has forced me to.
I do have a responsibility to Aisling to make contingency plans for her if I should die. We Scions probably all intrinsically believe we'll beat the odds, ascend to Godhood, and live forever. As the old Porgy and Bess song has it, "It ain't necessarily so".
I do look forward to sending Aisling into action to cut the power to the cultist compound. I worry about being able to collect her after the action is over. I want her to stay on scene and hide and keep sabotaging the power supply if their security forces manage to restore it the first time. We'll just have to make sure to sweep back by the main power allocation centre to collect Aisling on our way out. I don't want to have to rely on "Dad" to help me find her. He entrusted her to me, so she's my responsibility. Always has been.
It's a shame Aisling's not a full-sized human girl, as she's certainly attractive. I'm even amused when she exhibits flashes of jealousy when I flirt with other women in her presence. Even when she's pouty she's cute. But she will always be a sprite, and I will always be a part-human, part Godling Scion of Ogma.
I want her to have the best life I can provide for her, and I want to be able to spare her a violent death if at all possible. She's my scout, a second pair of eyes, but strictly a non-combatant. I thought of having her remove the CS canister, but the gas might have overwhelmed her, and there was always the possibility of her catching a stray rifle bullet, and that would've been the end of her. So instead I just held my breath and kept on fighting as best I could...and better, thanks to Laurel working her...magic...? on me, both during and after.
She touched me and now I have a hard time keeping me eyes off her, stealing a glance here, there. Gods, the guilt. It's like I'm a little Jesuit schoolboy all over again, even though I walked away from that belief system ages ago. 12 years of Catholic school sticks with you, good and bad. Part of me thinks of going to confession, laying all my troubles to a Father Rodriguez or Padre Gonzales out here in California...not because I believe any of it anymore, but just to talk about it to a third party not involved with no stake in the issue.
I need to drive these errant thoughts from my head and stay focused on the mission. Or at least grab a pint to calm my nerves. Alas, I don't think there are any friendly Irish bars between where we are now and Badger, California, or that I have time to pop into one, even if it exists. Shite.
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