COLT SINGLE ACTION ARMY - joining

[ocelot .]

He could smell it still, taste it on his tongue.

Blood in the air, on his blades, on his fur, in his mouth - it was everywhere, pooling out from a wound. Or was it two? Three, four? It didn't matter. It was all he could focus on, the salty, coppery taste filling both his senses and his mind, as he licked his knives clean, sheathing them back into his belt. The job was quick, easy, as it always was, for him. Spend a long enough time as a soldier, and even you can become something great, something beyond just your regular troop. Spend long enough, and even though you can't ever get it out of your head, maybe you can get used to the taste of blood, and the feeling of killing.

He didn't have any trouble with that, though. There was something thrilling about proving your dominance completely and utterly over someone else, showing off in the meantime, becoming something to be feared. He loved that feeling, relished it. It drove him to become what he was. To become that "something" beyond. Of course, it also kept him awake at night often - remembering his old life, as a soldier, that is. The pain he felt, the scars he carried, balanced out by the scars he left on others. Not that they could sport those around as badges of survival. Only time they'd be seen was during the burial, if they had anyone to bury them.

It kept him awake tonight, too. A thirst, of sorts, for blood. And for something more than that. A world without borders, ruled by one power.

That was the vision, wasn't it? Everyone had one. That was his, granted to him by another, pushing him to murder, to gain power by any means necessary. Maybe that's where his bloodthirst started - or maybe it was the other way around. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that it was time to stop hiding. He couldn't just ditch his purpose. Not many could. It was in his blood, at this point. A meme that controlled his very being.

So he put on his scarf, slipped on the bandolier that carried his knives, eyeing his beret before deciding to leave it, and leaving. Leaving the little cabin he had built himself to live out the rest of his days in peace. A metaphorical gesture, it occurred to him. Peace was over.

Now was his time to shine.

He was reminded him of a legendary archetype, as he walked along the railroad connecting to the Typhoon - he had heard of it, in his youth. Some sort of extant group. Thieves and rogues, the lot of them, isolated to the sea. Pirates, one could say. He didn't know, didn't have an opinion, really. He couldn't trust the rumors, and even if he could - well, he knew a little something about criminality, about violence for some goal, or even for just the sake of violence. A relatable goal. It took him hours for his lithe form to reach the end of the track and the beginning of the rest of his life.

With just a thought, he send a small wave of telekinesis to hit the bells that greeted him, glancing one of his steely grey eyes at the basket of black mambas. Go figure. Of course there would be more snakes everywhere he went. He sat and waited, curling up his spotted tail around his feet, patient, the little sheriff's badge he had pinned to his scarf glinting in the light of morning.

tags - "speech"

[Keona.]

[align=center]— if I fall, get knocked down, pick myself up off the ground —

The familiar ringing of bells seemed to have begun to be a common occurrence one again.  The clear sound cutting through the jungle edges.  Interrupting birdsong and insect chatter.  The tiny Privateer halted where she sat, on the roots of a tree.  Her ears perked, listening and confirming.  Quietly, she jumped to her paws and began to pad up towards the sound.

Keona guessed upwards again, her pale hues shifting towards a quick but careful guess.  "Aloha," her soft but clear greeting.  Simply curious.  "Can I help you?"

✯ — keona sibéal ní faoláin. female. privateer of the typhoon. blind. rusty spotted cat.  ref. bio.

[ocelot .]

Eyes met eyes as his flickered down, looking at the smaller one who had greeted him. Interesting - he hadn't seen anyone this small before. "Howdy," he said, the word contrasting with his plain American accent, making him sound not the least bit odd. "Is this the Typhoon? I've heard stories, and was wondering if I could join." A small grin finished his statement, awaiting a response.

She seemed nice enough. He would at least be able to get a little leeway in, maybe even a few questions, assuming he wasn't just accepted outright. Then, at least, he would have intel, knowledge, something he could use. As it stood now he was operating on rumors and naught else, which was dangerous for just about anyone, especially him.

tags - "speech"

[SÉAMUS]

[div style="width: 450px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify; font-family: georgia; font-size: 8pt;"]— shouldn't have done it now there's blood in the water
Melting from the nearby shadows, the faerie took a seat beside his daughter, regarding the ocelot through a curious pair of sea-green eyes.  "We'd like a name to call ya, of course, but you're certainly welcome to join our crew," the Irishman offered with an amused smirk.

The recent influx of newcomers made for an interesting change of pace.  The pirate hardly minded -- the new, the different, added a dash of chaos to a world that often grew boring for someone as long-lived as him.
[align=right]word of mouth there's a snake in the garden — SÉAMUS Ó FAOLÁIN ☠

[ocelot .]

A name? He let out a dry chuckle, thinking about what to tell them, his eyes flicking to the newest greeter of his to see if he could glean any information. He couldn't, though, besides determining that the two of them were probably close together, so instead he shifted his eyes and stood up, beginning to pace some what in front of the two. "I've been called many things," he mused aloud, half tempted to take out one of his knives to showboat just that little bit more, "but you can call me Revolver, or Shalashaska." Of his names, those were the ones he was proudest of. Adamska was a close-kept secret, and he wasn't very well going to say they should call him 'ocelot.' But those names? They held significance, they had meaning. Titles he had to live up to.

And he was keen on living life as large as possible. A Lone Star, traveling in the night, like one of his old westerns - someone who acted a tad ridiculous, maybe cocky, at times, but he felt it was earned, a reassuring confidence that helped him whenever he turned his analytical eyes onto someone, figuring out their strengths, weaknesses, as he was doing now. If you asked him, though, it was kind of useless to do that, to try and glean information from just the appearance of someone. The better thing to do was to wait for them to show their abilities, preferably from a safe distance, then strike at the weak points.

So, he would go on to ask a question: "How about you? What should I call you two fine folk?"

tags - "speech"

[Kian.]

[align=center]

Kian Ó Faoláin

"Welcome to the Typhoon, Revolver," came the Irishman's sudden, but jovial greeting.  With a grin, the faerie bounded out of the jungle, musing over the interesting monikers this stranger came with.  He doubted either were his birth name, but if they meant something to him, they were still worthy names.  In his experience, a name meant more if it held true worth to the owner.

He came to a halt beside his twin brother, eyes gleaming.  "Name's Kian Ó Faoláin.  'm just one of the crew, but my daughter, Keona 'ere is a Privateer an' my brother Séamus is a striker.  If you ever need help or anythin', they're the ones to look for -- 'course I don't mind lending a paw either should you need it."

All your dead end fury is not enough