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The League's Clubhouse
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PostPosted: Wed Sep 24, 2008 10:21 pm 
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PS Have they invented 953 in A Time yet? :twisted:

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PostPosted: Thu Sep 25, 2008 1:21 pm 
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Very good. I'm hooked. :grin:


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PostPosted: Fri Sep 26, 2008 10:03 am 
More!! :claps: :claps: :claps: :claps:






Please....


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 30, 2008 2:21 pm 
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OH thank heaven. At last, I can come back from cold turkey and gorge myself. I love this. Top Chronicles Ravenbait.

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PostPosted: Tue Sep 30, 2008 3:16 pm 
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I've made a list of all most of the people who log in from time to time, and I will get nearly all of them in at some point. However, if you've not been mentioned and would like to be, leave a note; or if there's something in particular you'd like to do, even if you've already been mentioned, also leave a note. Same deal as before, boys and girls. I'm just trying to be a bit more organised about it because we haven't got as much material to play with and I don't have time (or the internet access) for keeping up with CC/YACF/ACF/CTC/any of the other millions of fora that you lot frequent.

Sam

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 01, 2008 4:00 pm 
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Oh, I would kill to be in the Chronicles. Only small things like spiders and midgies mind, but I'd definitely kill them. If you want and if it's strictly necessary.

Not much of interest going on in these parts. The charidee ride was completed (yawn) and my 10 year marriage to the Crusty Juggler has been somewhat rejuvenated; more shagging than cycling at the moment to be honest,

which is nice.


Don't know whether you could get that in the Chronicles though ...

Favourite superhero? Green Lantern. Of course.

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PostPosted: Wed Oct 01, 2008 11:45 pm 
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So what does this new Chronicles thread imply for the Marvelicious crossover that was Volume 8 - is that effectively dead and buried now?

And if that is the case, do we not have a bit of a continuity issue? I suppose we could write it off as a mass hallucination brought on by a contaminated batch of Clif bars...

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PostPosted: Thu Oct 02, 2008 9:44 am 
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spesh wrote:
So what does this new Chronicles thread imply for the Marvelicious crossover that was Volume 8 - is that effectively dead and buried now?


Um. Yes and no (I mean, the clues are there already, I'm not going to spell it out for you!) There won't be any Marvel zombies, if that's what you're worried about.

But I'm having to ditch all cast members who don't come around to play any more, simply because I don't have time to go hunt them down and find out what they're up to. Unless someone tells me I don't know and I'm not happy making stuff up about real people to that degree.

In order to do that I'm pretty much having to select a few loose ends and pretend I can clear up all the rest by dealing with those ones.

Sam

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PostPosted: Fri Oct 03, 2008 5:51 pm 
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New Chronicles
Vol 1, Part 3


Soundtrack: 100th Window - Massive Attack




High up on the moors of the Peak District stands a circle of 12 stones, nestled in a hollow on a shelf of raised land. From here there are spectacular views across to the limestone plateau. There is a worn rubble bank surrounding the stone circle, which is just large enough to contain a moderately-sized sperm whale. A gap in the ring to the south-east may originally have contained one more stone, but it might not have done. No one knows. This structure dates from the Bronze Age, its builders long-since dead and forgotten and its purpose lost in time along with them.

On this night, as the seasons turn and a chill descends to signal the tilt of the Earth taking the Northern Hemisphere away from the sun, Heretic stands by the one stone that rises more than a metre from the ground and raises a toast to the passing summer. As he does so he sees something from the corner of his eye: a glimmer, an effervescent sparkle. Thinking that perhaps this particular ale is a might stronger than he had thought, he ignores it, but it becomes more prominent, hazing his peripheral vision, an echo of crumpled tinfoil seen through hologrammatic wrapping paper.

Puzzled, he turns to afford it his full attention and it vanishes. He returns to contemplating the view of the moor and it appears again. This time it wriggles and shimmers at the edge of his eye. When he turns to look it remains, a crisp crackling of silver that hums silently as it dances and vibrates to a distant, unheard drum.

"Has he seen it?"

"How can he not have seen it?"

"He's one of them human things, right? They never see anything."

"What do you want me to do? Put a big shiny sign above it with an arrow or something?"

"Have you got one?"

"Have you?"

"Do I look like I've got a big shiny sign about my person? Do I look like I've got any pockets? Do I look like I've got any clothes?"

"Are you telling me that your hand isn't in your pocket? Then where... Oh. Oh no. Oh please tell me you're not... Here? In public?"

"When did you turn into such a prude? Stop whispering. Perfectly natural behaviour, this, I'll have you know."

"Sssh! He's looking!"

Heretic ambles nonchalantly over to the pool of shadow that is the source of the rather bizarre conversation and, quick as a flash and without any outward sign, snatches one of the miscreants from its hiding place -- more by luck than judgement as it is too dark to see.

Dangling by its upper arm from his grip is a small, moss green, pointy sort of creature with fairly loose skin and two rows of needle teeth that it bares at him in what is probably meant to be a friendly grin rather than a snarl. Its eyes are the same blotchy grey colour as the stones and have no pupils. Its skin is roughly textured and its skinny limbs seem too long for its pot-bellied torso. The narrow feet have large, bulbous toes and are very bony. It is, quite obviously, male.

Heretic makes a note not to let it touch him. He has a feeling he knows where those hands have been.

"I've got more than a passing acquaintance with the Nac mac Feegles, you know," he says.

"Aye, lad, I'll bet you do at that," says the other one. From the voice it too is male, although its manhood is not quite so rampantly obvious. It is thicker-set, slightly more round... No. Less pointy. Neither of them could be described as round. Both of them are about the size of a 6 year old child, and yet the one Heretic is holding seems to have hardly any weight to it at all. "Time for plan B."

The creature he is holding blinks up at him, still grinning, then twists suddenly in his hand and sinks those needle teeth into his arm.

Heretic lets go with a loud yelp. Before he has had time to get over his shock at the pain he is given an almighty shove from behind and finds himself stumbling, tumbling then falling into the sparkling haze. "And take that with you!" he hears distantly.

He lands in a heap on a flat grey expanse of nothingness, and a second later his bike lands on top of him. Slowly and stiffly, more surprised and confused than hurt, he crawls out from under his machine and rolls up his sleeve to check his arm. There is a row of clean perforations, the blood already clotting and drying. When he turns around there is no sign of how he came to be there, only his bike lying forlornly on its non-transmission side, rear wheel ticking round in sad apathy.

Both tyres are completely flat.

§ § §


Many leagues and a temporal jump from the Peak District, Redshift is circumnavigating the conflux of geomantic power that is Anglesey. Also known as Druid's Island, or Ynys Mon, this was once a hotbed of Celtic rebellion against the Romans and was referred to by that most famous "historian" Geoffrey of Monmouth as Insule Ponorum, or the island of apples. Plenty have argued that Anglesey is no less than the original Avalon, itself a word supposedly derived from the Welsh Afallach, which means "rich in apples".

Just wait until Dan Brown takes an interest.

Stopping to take photographs of the Soar Stone, Redshift does not see the two grassy-green creatures with eyes of a patchy, greenish-grey unbroken by the black of pupils. She does not see them for they are lying prone in the grass and their roughly textured skin and verdant coloration provides a near-perfect camouflage even at a relatively short distance.

"Well, that's blown it," one of them whispers. The other gives it a swift blow to the ribs with a sharp, pointed elbow.

"Sssh! She'll hear us!"

"So what? There's not bloody much we can do about it now. She's riding deosil. This thing might as well be a traffic island for all the use it'll be when she's riding deosil."

"Yeah but no but yeah but no but it's the Autumn Equinox, innit boyo?"

"So? What's that...? Oh. Oh. Right you are then. We'd best get lickety-split over the other side then, hadn't we?"

They creep backwards on knees and elbows and bellies, their movement registering as no more than the wind rustling grass, then disappear down a rabbit hole.

§ § §


In London Zipperhead has plenty vying for his attention. Bendy buses, idiots on bikes who seem to think that signalling is something people only do if they wish to proclaim their devotion to the little baby Jesus and that a plastic hat makes them invincible to anything bar a direct strike from a tactical nuke, taxi drivers on PCP, obnoxious motorcycle messengers; and of course the Ipod-wearing, umbrella-wielding, Bluetooth-enabled pedestrians who have nothing better to do than jump out in front of any cyclist trying to get to work and then gesticulate wildly as if they have carte blanche to blame anyone and everything but themselves for all they think is wrong with the world.

It's therefore hardly surprising that he doesn't notice the strange, shimmering haze slightly past his usual stopping point. There is enough to worry about, not least of which is the sensation of something working loose. Upon checking he discovers that the pivot lever on his brake is about to make a bid for independence.

"Bastard gremlins!" Still, it's an excuse to put an order in at Wiggle. There's a bright side to everything.

He comes to a safe stop in the usual manner.

By the corner of the building, two concrete-grey creatures with slender, overly-long limbs, pointed heads, pot bellies and needle teeth watch him park his bike with eyes the colour of smog. They grumble and snark at one another, bickering like a pair of gulls with a discarded bag of chips. Zipperhead doesn't see them. He carries on into work without once registering the crackling silver cloud hovering exactly where he'd have ended up had his brake failed at the last moment.

The bickering turns into a scuffle and the grey-skinned creatures set about one another with furious abandon. After a few moments the strange effect in the air disappears and there is no evidence that anything peculiar has taken place except for the rather startled expression on the face of a nearby pigeon.

§ § §


Ravenbait has been dealing with the problem of the Hierophant by trying to pretend it doesn't exist. He may have sent the two birds to fetch her, but he apparently neglected to give them a deadline, and so they are quite happy to make a pest of themselves with Jarvis and scoff any jammie doughnuts, cakes, pastries, bacon butties, dry roasted peanuts, sausage and cheese sarnies or spaghetti that has been left unattended. Their definition of "unattended" seems to be "not actively being chewed by someone else at this precise moment". It's useless shutting them in another room: they always manage to get out. One minute you've got a cup of coffee and a nicely warm pain au chocolat and the next you've got a cup of coffee and a plateful of crumbs and there's a suspicious noise coming from under the table where one or both of the birds is trying to look innocent despite having flakes of pastry stuck to his face.

It's driving Jarvis to distraction, and the rest of the League's members are starting to lose patience as well. Even the normally affable Wing Commander has started dropping hints that the Clubhouse is no place for a pair of rowdy, bun-stealing ravens.

It was thus with a certain amount of relief that she was offered the diversion of a friend's birthday party to attend. Far away from the increasingly short-tempered and exasperated Jarvis she has spent a convivial evening drinking and playing silly games. Despite her assertions that she had consumed more than enough alcohol already, Scottish hospitality forbade her to go without an empty glass for more than a few minutes at a time and now, in the wee hours of the morning, she is attempting to unlock her bike while Frood tells her in no uncertain terms that riding home in her state would be about the most idiotic thing she could possibly do.

As she is drunk enough to think she is not that drunk, RB is arguing this point vociferously, albeit with slurred words, and does not see the dark grey creatures with eyes that shine green in the light of her front LEDs, their skin gleaming wet like the slippery cobbles under her stiff-soled shoes. One moment she is wrestling with the lock and the next something catches her foot, pulling her off-balance, and she pitches headfirst onto the road. Drunk as she is, the sickening crack of her skull bouncing off the cobbles is shocking. When Frood turns round she is lying on her back doing a good impression of a beetle in its death throes.

"I've just hit my head," she says. "Really, really hard."

Frood helps her up and she discovers she has dropped her cycle computer and rear lights. They search for the missing items but it's dark and cold and they are both very tired and have a long walk ahead of them, so they abandon the hunt and set off for home, blood dripping from the cut on RB's head.

The creatures ease out of the shadows by the railings to which the bikes had been locked. One of them picks up the two lights and the other retrieves the CatEye Astrale that should be fitted to Shackleton's handlebars. It puts the corner of the device in its mouth and bites down on it contemplatively as its companion likewise tests the edibility of the TL LD610s. Discovering that the taste is not to their liking, they put the objects in a neat pile by the front wheel of the motorbike parked there. After all, they have no use for them.

They watch RB and Frood wobble away towards home, Shackleton planting a few hefty pedal strikes on his mistresses legs and generally throwing his toys out of the pram because he's suffering the ignominy of being pushed all the way back to Granton.

"She won't be riding for a while," one of them says.

The other says nothing, but its needle teeth burn orange in the light of the nearby streetlamp as it dances a small jig on the spot where RB's head met the ground.

§ § §


All across the land members of the League are, unbeknownst to them, suffering at the hands of small, pointy creatures with round bellies and teeth like stalactites. The only exception is Linda, whose newly-minted ardour is keeping her out of the way without any interference.

Something is definitely going on, and while they have got as far as asking the obvious question of what, the far more important question of why is as yet unvoiced. More to the point, the question of who is behind it has not even crossed their minds.

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http://ravenfamily.org
"You might remember that 'annoyed' is my natural state!"
http://quantumcoyote.com
"Ya'd think we could just attracts ants, like normal people."


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PostPosted: Fri Oct 03, 2008 6:17 pm 
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Incidentally, if you haven't been mentioned but are a regular contributor, I haven't forgotten you.

I have Plans.

Sam

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http://ravenfamily.org
"You might remember that 'annoyed' is my natural state!"
http://quantumcoyote.com
"Ya'd think we could just attracts ants, like normal people."


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PostPosted: Fri Oct 03, 2008 7:35 pm 
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Ravenbait wrote:
Incidentally, if you haven't been mentioned but are a regular contributor, I haven't forgotten you.

I have Plans.

Sam



:yikes:

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PostPosted: Sat Oct 04, 2008 5:00 pm 
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So this would be a good time to mention I have a comedy red mohawk?

Nice stuff by the way. :)


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PostPosted: Sat Oct 04, 2008 7:51 pm 
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Oh and I've just officially became a slaphead. :mrgreen:

Hair shaved for a bet. :roll:

I quite like it although it's going to be a bit chilly in the Finnish winter. :shock:

Although, a shaved head is better than a knackered ankle because I went pole dancing with me doing the pole dancing. :doh:

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PostPosted: Sun Oct 05, 2008 7:27 pm 
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Hmm, the Odd must have walked across from Barbrook 2 :evil: I'll need to see to that! :warpath: Ann'a good job there's an HPX on the bike!
This looks promising...... now where did I pack the 12" adjustable?? :evilchuffy: :runover:

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