All is silent and motionless in the room, save the widening rings of ripples in the soapy water filling the tub . With a sudden burst, the water's surface is broken by the crown of a drenched head. Water streams over closed lids and regal cheeks, and moisture darkened red brown tresses cling to curving shoulders. Hazel eyes flecked with gold and green snap open as she continues to rise, sudsy water cascading over tanned muscles and curves. Cool air brushes her skin as she steps from the tub. A brief shiver raises goosebumps on her flesh...bumps quickly smoothed down by a linen towel. She dries her skin, then applies the towel to her hair, rubbing vigorously until her hair stands out about her head in a wild auburn halo. She drops the towel to the floor, reaching for her clothing to ward off the cold, but pauses as she catches sight of herself in the full length mirror in the corner. The mirror is one of the few concessions to her vanity.

She turns a bit, eyeing her reflection critically, tensing muscles here and there to make certain they are not growing weak. A glance at the wild hair frizzing about her head prompts her to lift her hand to smooth down the unruly tresses. She turns her head to the side, eyeing her reflection, hair forgotten as she touches fingers to the small half moon scar at her temple, just at her hairline. That was where one of her first bounties had left his mark with a backhanded swipe, one of those few times when she had not been quick enough to get out of the way. His blade had cut into her skin, and she had been frightened by the blood, and yet too proud to ask anyone for help. But the man had been more than repayed for his foolishness since. The memory of that brings a grim smile to her lips.

Her hand drops then to her upper arm, muscles flexing beneath her fingers before she pauses to draw a fingertip along the thin, white line marring her skin midway between elbow and shoulder. About two inches in length, the scar served as a reminder never to let her guard down, especially when working in grey. That one she had gotten when she had been going for a bounty in pirate territory. She smiled slightly thinking
of that small station bar. That had been her first meeting with the ones that would soon become her family. What should have been a single pilot she needed to capture, turned out to be a small group, if not for the pirates, she wouldnt be here now.

Most of the ship's crew had been rounded up or killed in the fighting, with Blak,as she found out later they were called, liberating the ship of its riches. Mystic had headed straight for the Captain's cabin, in search of papers and charts that she hoped would lead her to others . What she found instead was a finely carvedd synthwood desk, which she set to unlocking. A movement caught out of the corner of her eye set her
reflexes into motion, and it was only these that kept her from taking a dagger in the heart. Instead, the girl's blade had sliced her arm, leaving the scar that remained to this day. When the girl had been subdued , two of her new friends had dragged her onto the dock while Mystic pressed a cloth to her bleeding arm, following behind.

Once on the dock, the girl had broken free and run. Mystic shakes her head in remembrance, as she did that day, watching as they herded what was left of the crew into an atlas and set them adrift from the station. There had been some fine goods acquired from that venture, besides a lesson in being more observant. After collecting her bounty, and unloading her new desk at her apartment, she had found herself back in
that Odia bar, having drinks with the same pilots she normally hunted.

Then of course there were the almost invisible scars at her wrists, where those manacles had bit so cruelly into her skin. Her fingers drop to rub at them, tracing the slight ridges with the sensitive pads of her fingertips. They served to remind her of her mission...and to fuel her hatred, should she ever chance to feel it wane. Those memories are forced back into the darker recesses of her mind.

There would have been more scars, for she had taken worse injuries in recent time, but shortly after that incident with the girl she had stayed in grey space and been introduced to a wonderful healer, and those injuries had healed without scars.

She turns from the mirror and resumes dressing, slipping on those oddly feminine underthings,more vanity she supposed, before she straps the triple blade sheath to her arm. As is her habit, she tests the spring action once the sheath is secured, flicking her wrist and sending the first of three small blades flying into her hand. Fingers close about the handle, then loosen and send the blade home with a motion almost as quick as the one that released it.

She slides the linen shirt over her head and lets its lower ends drop to the middle of her thighs, while she arranges the front for a middle range amount of cleavage, then fastens and straightens the cuffs. Next she tugs on her dark purple leather like breeches, tucking the shirt into the waistband, along with a sheathed blade at her center back. Sitting down on her bed, she pulls on thick socks, then boots of black leather, fastening criss crossing lacings that go almost to her knee. She slides a large sheathed dagger into the outside of one boot, and then a smaller one on the inside of the other, and stands. The heels of the boots lift her a good three inches above her barefoot height of just 5'7", and she smiles, feeling like a giant.

Pulling on her jacket, she tucks another small dagger into the inside pocket, as well as a small packet of white powder, and a package containing two small pills. The powder was a sleeping aid, and the pills were fast acting poison, each kept handy for emergencies. Over the jacket she fastens her belt, simple and black, with a gold buckle. From this she suspends the strap that holds her whip to her side.

This morning, nothing urgent pending, she lingers over her toilette, and lingers also over the past. She finishes pulling a brush through her unruly waves of drying hair, finally just letting it fall to her waist, and reaches for the small jewelry box resting atop the carved desk. First, she removes a thin, gold chain, from which dangles a old fashioned looking cross her mother had given her, and a tiny xith heart. The heart had been from a dear friend, now dead and gone. He had died honorably, fighting beside her, and her fingers linger over the smooth stone for a moment, savoring the memories of the times they had spent together.

She slips the chain about her neck, closing her eyes as the cold metal and cool xith make contact with her skin. Once it is clasped, she reaches into the box again, this time removing a pair of xith scimitars dangling from a gold ball. After giving her head a shake to let auburn tresses fall where they may, and to test the feeling of the dangling earrings, she steps back from the dresser .

Lately, she'd taken to wearing a scarf tied about her head . She always stood a little taller when she wore it. For it told everyone, who and what she was. Giving her reflection a wicked wink and a flashing grin, she tilts the scarf at a rakish angle, grabs her whip,and steps out to face the day.

Very Nice, Mystic...

"brava", he exclaimed...

More!
(..and... a Whip? We simply MUST talk more often, dearie... I'm afraid I simply don't know you as well as I want to...)

Good god people, when will you start to realize that third-person present-tense does NOT make for anything even resembling a coherent and enjoyable style?
It's easier to read AOLers' stories than these!
(And not just you mystic. You just happen to have the latest thread.)

I wish putting pants on was that exciting for me.

Leber: hehe bring the tequila and we have a nice chat :-)

genka: awww, I have learned to smile and carry on when your talking most of the time anyway :-)~

Smittens: and just think, I do it EVERY day ;-)

Mystic: you have to apply a blur filter to some of genka's comments. This was probably just a sort of "constructive criticism".

Really, this your vs you're thing isn't as hard as it sounds. "Your" for when something belongs to whoever you're addressing, "you're" for whenever "you are" doesn't sound incredibly stupid.
GET IT THROUGH YOUR SKULL SMILEY-GIRL

Rogue: /me brings tequila, flowers, chocolate and other assorted "items"

Smittens: For chrissake put some PANTS on! And stop that! Ewwww!

Toshiro: You should come ingame so Spellcast has to protect you again.

Ok genka,you are correct, I shall rephrase my response to make you a happier camper ...hmmm?

Before:(makes genka unhappy)
genka: awww, I have learned to smile and carry on when your talking most of the time anyway :-)~

After:(will of course not make him happier, but hey I tried)
Mr. Genka: I will endeavor in the future as I have in the past to ignore YOUR comments. So in fact when YOU ARE talking it will be ignored, because as much as you think you know, I post here for people to enjoy and because I enjoy posting. I corrected my grammar and syntax when I was in school because I wanted a good grade. Here I am having ..hmm what is that word?? Oh yes, FUN. Because you inspire me so much, here is something special just for you. :-)
:-)

:-)

:-)~

Leber: interesting..hehe

Genka Post :

Good god people, when will you start to realize that third-person present-tense does NOT make for anything even resembling a coherent and enjoyable style?
It's easier to read AOLers' stories than these!
(And not just you mystic. You just happen to have the latest thread.)

-and-

Really, this your vs you're thing isn't as hard as it sounds. "Your" for when something belongs to whoever you're addressing, "you're" for whenever "you are" doesn't sound incredibly stupid.
GET IT THROUGH YOUR SKULL SMILEY-GIRL

---

[ ] Hilarious
[ ] Funny
[ ] Mildly Amusing
[ ] Mediocre
[ ] Poor
[x] Pathetic

Commentary :

This is a terrible troll.

The first most basic error is to pick on a person generally known to be friendly and generous to everyone.

The second error is to sound facetious by harping on a purely stylistic issue.

The third is, in the opinion of this Board, the most damaging. The error is simply to commit the above two mistakes again after the said friendly person responded in a fair manner.

/me likes this genka review board :)

Though I refuse to support the blustering ignorance that is "Genka" in any manner... possessive versus contraction strikes one with more force than, say, a comma splice. I tend to edit posts for spelling and making sure I actually wrote what I was trying to say, not as an exercise in graded work mentality, but because that's the way you're supposed to write. Actually, belay "supposed to write," since that is being excessively generous. It is correct when written that way.

That having been said, Genka is an uncouth and boorish ass. There are better ways to alert an author to the fact that they may wish to perform a discrete editing of an otherwise excellent (and hot ;) post.

Dr. Lecter, S.S.L'

I say we make that account public to all but genka :P

Count down to move to off topic: 10... 9...

Perhaps mere [LOCKAGE] could be acheived...

*NOOOOES*... I want the next installment...

Please proceed Mystic...

(uh, ermmm... am I going to have to get more fuzzy pink cuffs?)

Mystic, perhaps write it and then start a new thread put the old one in there first) and we'll all promise NOT to hijack it this time?