CHARADES - o, meet & greet

[ocelot .]

A day in, and he was already getting antsy.

Complacency didn't sit well with him - hell, inaction didn't sit well with him. Not when he didn't have a big scheme planned out, not when there wasn't a domino of events leading out to him on top. No, he was on the very bottom right now, above the prisoners of war - or lack thereof - but lacking any real power. Sure, he could probably win in a fight against most, but power wasn't true power. The world wasn't kill or be killed, one had to be a bit more ingenious to succeed, to fulfill their goals, and his was a lofty goal indeed. One nation. One world power. No more borders. The words repeated in his mind, a broken record spitting out the true goal of anyone with half a mind, the goal that would lead to a perfect world. A utopia.

But now he had to start from ground one. His scheme was but a sapling, one he had planted and fertilized with the soil of intellect, and one he would have to water with intel, that would grow with his influence. The metaphor felt a little ham-fisted, in his head, as he gathered loose wood, but whatever.

His plan as of right now: gather intel. Gain allies, preferably ones he could control. Gain power. Pull a coup or two. Unite the world into one nation.

He was a king at gathering information, of course. Torturing it out of people was one way, something he excelled at, but you typically didn't stay very buddy-buddy with someone you had just broken emotionally. No, the easiest key to someone's wealth of knowledge was to befriend them. Gain their trust. Sure, they were mostly useless after that, and maintaining those friendships was an exercise less in your ability to tactically manipulate those around you and more an exercise in patience - but the efforts on the surface still stuck.

That was his justification for this campfire, one he set alight as the sun lowered itself, one he sat next to in the dark, grey eyes reflecting the flickering fire. "Gather 'round the campfire," he called, with a small flourish of the stick he was holding telekinetically, "gather around, and tell a story about yourself." With that, he sat down, pulling out one of the knives he had strapped to himself and sharpening said stick with it, to pass the time.

tags - "speech"

[guts]

[align=center]

▼ I'M NUCLEAR, I'M WILD ▼

Maybe people would say he was a little too eager to talk about himself, but it wasn't really his fault. He was the embodiment of sin, after all, and even though he wasn't Pride, he still had a large ego. With self-deprecating moments in-between, of course. He could recognize that he was an asshole at times, perhaps more often than normal.

Still, he also knew when to shut his trap. Usually. He could easily tell the difference between useless and sensitive information, plus which one to give away at any certain time.

So, an opportunity to talk about himself? A story, no less? Well, that was right up his alley. Greed pads over towards the light of the fire, warmth trailing over his skin where it reached, a small, sharp-toothed grin on his face. The waving flames painted a picture in the blackness of his shades.

He settles down, too, lowering himself down to relax onto his stomach. "Haven't seen your face around much before. Name's Greed, and yours?" a piece of info for a piece of info. It was a fair trade, as far as he was concerned. Now, what story should he tell? He had plenty, gathered over his 200 years of living, and still counting.

"I have plenty. But I'll save you the others and tell you one." he starts. "One time, I met this little midget and his brother. The thing is, though, his brother was just a suit of armor! Like, a soul captured in some armor, y'know? Anyway, I fought the midget for a little while, and then some lady showed up to defend him. I don't hit women, of course, so I refused to fight her. But the bitch was a strong one, she handed my ass to me!" maybe telling a tale where he got beat up wasn't painting himself in a very good light, but at least it would be amusing.

"After all that, Father—er, my creator burned me in a vat of boiling gold. It was a fitting death, but it hurt like a bitch. Him and all my 'siblings' can get fucked." he finishes with an irritated snort, his body heating up at the mere memory. Sometimes he had dreams about it, the pain and loneliness he felt, him against the world. But here he was again, with a second chance to live.

[ROXANNE R.]

CANNIBAL QUEEN { .:*・°☆ } ——— [size=10pt]info

Next to arrive was Roxanne, well, she only had a few stories to tell and she didn't find any of them to be remotely interesting at all. Aside from that one time she died but she didn't want to dampen the mood with that, she took a seat a little ways from the jaguar that was already telling the tale of how he had his ass handed to him by a woman. She couldn't help but let out a giggle at the sound of that though she turned her gaze over to Ocelot who was holding the meet and greet, she would sit down before she opened her maw to speak "Hello there, my name is Roxanne. Hope ya end up liking it here in the Typhoon," Her gaze turned over towards Greed once he finished his story did she take a deep breath saying with a frown on her face "Well, your dad sounds like a dick. Fuck em, at least here, there's people who love ya." Though her gaze averted from the jaguar seeing now that his story was done, she would have to tell her own "Mine isn't as cool as fighting midgets like Greed but, once I captured a whole whale shark for my niece as a gift. I had to get a bunch of shrimp into a whole ass fishing net, a few of the bastards slid through cause of how much there was. My wings ached so much that day, it felt like I had been flying for hours! Eventually, I saw something big in the water and it was this huge ass juvenile shark, I could've been eaten though thankfully it didn't take an interest to me. Eventually, the whale shark showed up and I coaxed it to the shores so my niece could see them with their own eyes. My brother, former Captain and assface, Pincher, was fine with the gift though his boyfriend at the time, Jacob, wasn't all about that jazz. Me, I didn't care since this was solely for my niece."[shadow=red,left][/shadow]

[color=#ff748c]

[roan ;]

[align=center][div style="width: 45%; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: times new roman;"]♡ — Roan, truthfully, didn't have very many exciting stories to tell yet. Granted, this was hardly the boy's fault, considering he was still just a youngling of four months and hadn't really had a chance to have any interesting stories to tell yet. Still, it wasn't as if he was just going to pass over the chance to introduce himself to someone new, and he had a couple of stories from his months hanging out with his mother... he was sure he could come up with some sort of exciting twist. Although really, this just reminded him that he needed to get some exciting life stories of his own sometime in the future. All these adults were telling such wild tales of adventure, and here he was at four months old with nothing! Sure, to most four months old was essentially nothing in their eyes, but to Roan? That was his entire life! And he needed something interesting to happen to him, even if he had to make it happen.

Noting this little train of thought for later – whether or not he would ever actually remember it notwithstanding – the kit found himself rushing over to the campfire, taking up his natural position beside his mother. Eyes sparkling with curiosity, the boy watched Ocelot sharpen the stick he had in paw, wondering where exactly he had gotten such a pretty knife. Mama had told him never to play with knives until he was older – and even then, they were only for fights – but he couldn't help but wonder if Ocelot would teach him how to hold one. Noting that away as yet another thing to possibly disappear from his young mind later, Roan spoke with a big smile, "Dia dhuit, mister! My name is Roan Ó Fao... Faoláin-Roux! I don't have many stories, but... there was one time when a turtle got into mama and I's house! It was this real big, real slow turtle, and I named it Sammy! I really liked Sammy, so I tried hiding him in the corner so mama wouldn't take him, but mama found out and told me that Sammy needed to be near the ocean! So Sammy eventually ended up leaving... but I'm glad he's happy now! And I got to see a turtle up close." It was a relatively simple story with not nearly as much excitement as his mother's or Greed's, but the child still found himself smiling proudly as he finished, looking at Ocelot expectantly.

[ocelot .]

He nodded his head to all those who appeared, listening to their tales with a vested interest, trying to glean all he could from each. But first, an introduction, as he had not yet met these people: "Howdy. You can call me Revolver, or Shalashaska - 'm new around, but I figured I'd hold a little get together, just to get to know some people a bit better." The smile on his face was genuine enough, but the look in his steely eyes was a little too genial - though whether this was because he was freakishly nice or just pretending to be so would be up to who he was talking to.

Greed was up first. His was about a fight he had once, which told him many things - that he valued his combat prowess, for one, which was absolutely excellent. That he had experience with the strange, which was good for any soldier. That he had problems with his family, and that he didn't fight girls, both of which weren't good traits, but would be useful regardless. "A fine tale, there - though I'd hope you've learned your lesson. If someone goes picking a fight, you oughta give it to 'em." He said it nicely enough, not a hint of any misplaced aggression in his voice - just a comment on his attitude. After a moment, he added, "Sorry 'bout the rest, though. Especially family - those can be rough. Glad that you've found a place here, though." His eyes glanced from Greed to Roxanne, the second person to join his little hoedown.

"'s not the content of the story, but the way it's told," he said, by way of platitude. That much wasn't a lie (it would be a bit silly to lie about something that small), so he found it easy to work in, as a little endearing belief of his. Roxanne's story told him mainly about how she valued her family above all else - and on top of that, he got an entertaining little tale about a birthday present. That was enough Intel for him, at least - this was an exercise in finding out what people thought of first when asked to tell a story. "A whole whale shark, huh? Damn, now I bet that'd be a sight."

The last was Roan, who - well. He was just a kid. It was hard for him to keep up the mindset of an analytical commander, picking apart those he met to figure out their strengths and weaknesses, when the small one was happily spouting Gaelic and talking about a turtle he found once. Poor kid - Adam could only hope he grew up strong in this world. "And a mighty fine day to you, kid," he said, assuming that the Gaelic meant something along the lines of 'good day' or 'hello.' He listened patiently to the story, watching the kid's eyes flick to his knife, Adam's own eyes watching him carefully, curiously, genuinely. "Well then," he said, at the end of it, "I bet Sammy's glad you took him back to the shore. A fine deed for you to do, Roan, and a nice story - you're pretty good."

Now that everyone's attention was on him, it was his turn to tell a story. "Well, buckle in - this was a fairy tale my father used to tell me." A lie, but a white one, harmless in nature, a second layer to disguise that his story, too, was from his past. He sticks the newly pointy end of his stick in the ground, and begins narrating, floating his knife around near him as if to gesticulate - for the drama, of course.

"Once upon a time, there was a soldier. Now, this soldier wasn't anything special - he was just another body, frankly. Someone not worth a name or anything. But he desperately wanted to be something, you know? And not just any something, he wants to be someone great, someone whose name goes down in history.

Now, this soldier, this nobody, he trundled along for years without a real purpose. Then, one day, he heard there was a wise man near where he was stationed, and this wise man would answer any question accurately - even about the future! - however, you could only ask him one question.

So after some time thinking, he goes to see this wise man, and he asks, 'wise one, please tell me - what is the point of living in this world?' The wise man looks at him, and says, 'Are you sure that is what you want to ask?' Because, y'know, there's no turning back after this. But the soldier nods his head, determined, so the wise man says, 'Very well, I will tell you what you ask; but first, you must perform three tasks.'

'Anything,' the soldier says, 'as long as you tell me what I should do with life.'

'First, you must rise through your ranks. Second, you must gain a name, as only the named can be worthy of meaning. Then, you must find me again where you have never been before, and ask me then.'

The soldier nods immediately - he's unsure of himself, yeah, but he's determined. He'll do anything at this point. So he trains, and he rises through his ranks, just as the wise man said. He becomes a ruthless combatant, and because of this hears that his enemies have given him a name. When he hears this, he's overjoyed, and he realizes that with that his first two tasks are fulfilled. Then, he begins his search for the wise man.

It takes him a year of searching, going to the tops of mountains, sailing to distant islands. As months pass without even a hint of where the man could be, he goes back to where he first meets the wise man for some clues - except the man is there to greet him. The soldier is taken aback at first, and in his anger and surprise, he asks the old man, 'Why are you here? Did you not tell me to find you where I had never been?' The wise man smiles, and says, 'But you have never been here as you are now. You are a new man, now, someone who has gained a name for himself. Now I will tell you what the purpose of life is.

'Life is nothing without an ideology. You must break from society and become your own person with your own philosophy - only then can you enter the true man's world.'"

As soon as he's finished, he sighs. "Story's always stuck with me, even after he passed away. It's a philosophy that I think is important to uphold, y'know?" With a shrug, he picks the stick back up, and returns to whittling away, this time beginning to carve a more intricate design into the improvised shiv. "Just gotta make yourself into something worth being."

tags - "speech"

[MYERS]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]"I am Ahab." No, he isn’t. He is a name he gave to himself - took for himself, even then unable to claim anything as his own that hadn’t been given. He’s everyone. He’s nothing and everything. As faceless as he is the face of many, living as a lonesome word rippling through a crowd, both one and a thousand all at once. That weight in the chest that holds one’s breath is where he’s made his home.

His paws carry themselves to the fire. He watches himself move from somewhere just off to the left. Watches himself sit down hard, clumsily, not thinking much of balance and less of poise. His head hangs a little, hunched between the mountains of his shoulders. He’s listening. Processing the command: to tell a story.

Ocelot reminds him of something, of many things. Unimportant fragments of a forgotten past. The fire jolts something primal, frightened in him: a sudden urge to shove the wildcat in makes his palms sweat. Relief comes in the knowledge that he won’t. Instead he just stares, first at the faces as they introduced themselves, then at the dancing campfire when eyes pierce too deeply. He swims in the motions of that fire, struggles against the weight that pulls his expression down.

“The first day I spent alive I ripped my own foot off.” A metal claw reaches out, curls into the base of the fire; he shuffles the branches around and makes sparks dance. He can feel it, distantly: heat that rises up the rest of his flesh arm, the base of the bionic beginning to burn the longer he held the metal in the flames. He retracts his paw. “I was tired from fighting. I went back to sleep. I visited the place where things that aren't quite alive or dead tend to go.”

He remembers a lot of things, more than he’d ever let on. They’d tried to force the memories out to put something calm and complacent in his place, but he remembers the metal clamp around his paw, the taste of his own blood as he struggled to unhinge the trap. The clap of gunshots, the feeling of burning alive and yet seeing no fire - only blood, only sharp needles digging into his skin, a thousand little pinpricks that made the pain no less bearable but lulled him to silence. He remembers the faces closing in as he fell. The memory of gore paints thick sheets of metal over his teeth, a taste he'd know forever.

“On the second day I woke up in an empty room. I had slept for a long, long time... But I was tired, still. No sleep could fix that. I looked...” His voice is slowing considerably - there’s a building slur to his words, sounds mixing on a heavy tongue and thoughts blurring together. The fire keeps him in place. He tethers his memory to it, holds on tight. Remembers... Nothing. The grizzly’s metal claws flex into the dirt as he struggles to finish so simple a tale. “...And I had lost something very important to me. I slept again, and looked for it in my dreams. I couldn’t find it, even there. I still feel it at my side, sometimes, the memory is so familiar.”

He thinks of them discussing love, of wholeness and family. There was a hole where that ought to be - no mother, no father, no friend nor sibling to care for him. He was born in that clean room, painting blood on its walls and roaring like a screaming newborn. He was brought to life and raised in a day - many days, but time tended to blur when he scrutinized that era too closely - and then set off to live. If there was purpose in his existence, even the continuance of a lineage, he wasn't sure if even the man in Ocelot's story could tell him so.

“In the room, I learned to be alive. I was taught who I had been, where I had come from before waking. I was told to remember things that I couldn’t, so they showed me… And I know, now, who I am.” The branching numbness that weighs in his chest has spread to the back of his skull, to the muscles of his forelimbs. He wants to lay down. He wants to sleep for a long, long time again - perhaps never wake up, just stay here by the fire and melt into the earth. Become one with it, one with something. There's lies in his “I learned a lot in those days. I was given time to rest. When I woke, I was here. I crossed the train tracks and found home on the other side.”

Pain creases the deep scars on his face, paints the bags under his eyes dark with an exhaustion that would never end. He'd told his story. Behind his body he watches himself sigh, looking up at his clanmates with practiced calm. Abandoning the present and delving into the past always left him... A little shook up.

But, he only spoke of the truth.

Right?