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ethan

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Everything posted by ethan

  1. ethan

    No worries :) Jack says hi and he was thinking about making a return this year.

  2. ethan

    Not too bad, mi love :) Sorry I didn't reply sooner, it didn't flag up for some reason... Need any help in the Training groups?

  3. Aww I missed your birthday... Happy Birthday for then aaaand Happy Saturday for now!

  4. My nose won't stop being itchy!

  5. ethan

    ::jump hugs::

  6. Trying to work the forums on his new phone and realises he isn't cut out for technology

  7. (( Tower of Commerce, Ferenginar )) :: Sat alone in one of the high tower’s cold rooms, Grimp pulled the blanket tighter around his frail form and pressed the button for the next page on the padd. The Rules of Acquisition lay on another padd down by the side of his small stool; lost and forgotten about as he perused through the romance novel, marveling at the imagery. From the first chapter, he was hooked. He loved it. Every twist, every turn, every “curve of the female Vulcan, who walked purposefully up to the door, her heaving buss…”:: :: A short, sharp knock stirred the young one from his book and he threw off the blanket, covering the padd with haste as the door opened, creaking as it did so. The sound of the torrential downpour outside the thick windows only added to the tension in the room as the floorboards groaned underneath the weight of the feet walking across them.:: :: The snarling features of the elder, clad in the ceremonial robes and grinning despite the anxiety the young one held out another set of robes, his head bowed quite deeply. Grimp shook his own head and stood up, making sure the novel was buried underneath the brown blanket.:: Morta: Master… Grimp: ...Grimp. :: Revising himself, he replied.:: Morta: Master Grimp… Have you decided on a course of action for the grand nation of Ferenginar? Your father would be very disappointed… eh… if you have neglected your duties. :: Grimp’s eyes shot down to the novel and back to the Rules of Acquisition. He stooped quickly to pick up the padd and held it out to the groveling Ferengi.:: Grimp: Here. :: The elder dropped the robes and clamored for the padd, immediately going for the information on it. He looked at Grimp blankly as he thoroughly read the information, coming to a rather dull conclusion.:: Morta: But… But this is blank, Master… Grimp: …Grimp. Morta: Master Grimp. ::he sighed:: You have not worked on the revisions we have spoken about. :: The young man made a face and huffed, sitting back down on the small stool. The rain beat against the glass window pane and the young man grimaced at the cold wind that blew like a howling beast into the small room. He wanted to find out whether the kindly Vulcan teacher had taken the student from…:: Morta: Master… Grimp: …Grimp. Morta: Master Grimp; we must present this to the Board of Liquidators who will decide on your appointment as the Grand Naaaaagus. :: The last part was more of a whine, the kind that small children have when they’re denied ice-cream before bed. Grimp crossed his arms over his chest and took the padd back. He made slight revisions to the already misunderstood rules and handed it back.:: Grimp: It’s simple. You’ll figure it out. :: With that, he bent down and picked up the blanket from the floor along with his other padd.:: Grimp: I’ve had enough. I’m moving. :: Morta’s face dropped and he moved to cover the doorway, stopping Grimp from walking out. His twisted grin twisted even further, his head became more sideways and his look more confused then it’d been before. Grimp rolled his eyes upwards and strong armed the elder Ferengi out of the way.:: Morta: But… But… Master! Grimp: …Grimp. Morta: Master Grimp! :: He followed the young Ferengi out of the door and down the corridor, bawling for his attention.:: Morta: Where will you go? What will you do? You cannot survive in the galaxy without your protectors! Who will be Grand Naagus? It is your inheritance! :: Grimp shrugged his shoulders as he opened the heavy wooden door.:: Grimp: You do it; you’ve got my notes. Morta: ::screeching:: But Master! Grimp: … Grimp. Morta: But Master Grimp! What will you do?! :: He shrugged again.:: Grimp: Become a Vulcan Romance writer, I suppose. If that fails, I’ll just do fan fiction. Lt.Cmdr Ethan Brice Chief of Engineering USS Independence-A
  8. Because they're Classics! I know they were writers, but it doesn't make them any less great where would we be without a bit of randomness? And on the writing challenge board, isn't it inspirational writers we should look to?
  9. It's Plutarch, Herodotus, Homer and Thucydides that are the greats.
  10. Then I apologise if it cause offense; it wasn't intended to, however it's my general feelings on the matter. As with the Featured Articles, there has to be a nominator and a supporter. Coinciding with this matter, I do feel that the position you are taking is directed at selected individuals and the fact that this has only come to light now in round 8 would be frustrating to any author that has submitted their own work in prior rounds. In my opinion, that would be highly insulting to know that my own work had been skimmed over, considering that it states in the rules that a person can submit their own work. All in all, I am sorry Salak if this has caused you to be insulted, again it wasn't meant to and we've had serious debates in the past that have come out all rosy and stuff. We're all torn over it so I'm calling it quits from my end and extending the hand of gentlemanly friendship once more. No hard feelings.
  11. My main concern in this contest was (and I'll say it again) the fair representation of every ship. The vast majority of submissions have been from the USS Ronin and other ships in the minority. Not every ship has had a fair bout through each of the rounds and I feel that it is exceedingly unfair to 'skip' a SIM because of who it is submitted by. If the author submits their own work then good for them! I'm never happy with my own work and so would be too much of a chicken to submit mine for fear of backlash. However, not naming anyone in particular, there has been one steady person submitting sims for their group and them alone! How can that be fair? One SIM in the whole round from one ship, another singular SIM from another ship and the rest swamped by an enthusiastic majority. Since this is the case, I think it is unfair for voters to cast their stones onto another SIM simply because the author submitted their own work. It's ludricrous and quite frankly childish. As Wolf says, we nominate ourselves for things in everyday life from which ship we post on to which job we have to keep our addiction to the UFoP fueled. Why should this be any different? If I see a SIM in my group worth submitting then I will. Personally, I am on one of the best ships for great writers in this fleet and so have a lot of entries into the competition. We take pride in each other's work and I only hope that, without the need for a boycott, others take up the challenge and submit their collegues work for voting, therefore making this competition as fair as it should be. Edit: Coincidentally, I would wonder if this attitude of "don't submit your own" applies to the Featured Articles on the Wiki.
  12. I'd rather vote for a sim on it's merit, despite who entered it in, as long as every ship has fair representation. It isn't fair, in my opinion, to not vote for a sim because the person who wrote it nominated it. If you're proud of your work and you feel it's a fair entry then post it up! Fair representation of a vessel is what we're after here, not dictated voting.
  13. Business is a state of mind. So is Kansas.
  14. "Morning Light" by Lt. Ethan Brice ... A soft veil of light travelled through the open window above his head and shone onto the floor. Morning had come unannounced once again. Eyes barely able to blink opened with a stiffness recognisable after restless sleep and the body of a man turned itself over, wanting the hours to fall from the clock, time to reverse itself and it to the witching hour once more. He groaned and turned once again, onto his back this time. Opening his eyes he looked up to the ceiling above the bed, seeing the light. His eyes closed and a hand reached upward the rub the sleep from his eyes the sandman had deposited as a keepsake. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the man let his feet touch the floor and momentarily felt the presence of the liquor bottle before his kick made it roll towards the wall with a clink. “Morning, sweetheart,” he whispered gently. He pushed his body from the mattress and stood, welcoming the new day with a stretch and a yawn. Stiffly he walked into the adjoining bathroom and felt for the tap, feeling the gush of cold water as he turned the handle. Washing away the lack of sleep from his face, he reached blindly for the towel and dabbed away the moisture from his features, looking into the mirror. A flash from the bedroom, the movement of someone walking past the door and he whipped round to find no one there. He breathed a sigh of relief as his heart rate raced, pumping away inside his chest against his ribcage. “You scared me then, darling,” he said to the air around him as he dressed, pulling on the shirt and trousers. “You’d make me jump out of my skin to get me to laugh.” Looping the tie around his neck, he fastened it into the knot and let the tail hang down his abdomen. He looked into the full-length mirror. Picture perfect, as she would always say. He slipped a hand into his pocket and with the other reached for the linen trousers he’d been wearing for bed. “I’ve got a lot to do today, it’s a big day, everyone’s coming over,” he tossed the dirty linen trousers into the hamper and picked up the remnants of the night before. “I can’t believe we drank all this last night...” He walked down the stairs, picking up his shirt that had been removed and tossed happily on the stairwell, along with the tie that was hanging off the banister. His shoes, the black ones were waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him to slip his feet into and the scent of her perfume was lingering in the air all around him. “Smells lovely, beautiful,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “Is the coffee done yet? The replicator’s not acting up, is it?” It wasn’t. He ordered a cup of coffee from the replicator and sat at the small kitchen table, drinking from the mug and smiling to himself. “I thought about re-enlisting last night, to give me something to do,” he drank from the mug. “I miss being in the service, besides...” he smiled... “I think my old uniform might still fit me.” There was a knock on the door, a gentle knock that tapped only three times and then the door slid open casually like it had done a million times over. A familiar face, a young woman with dark hair flowing beautifully like it had always done, ever since she was a little girl. The smile, that gorgeous smile that he could never replace and never wanted to ever present, adorned on her features like a candle in the darkness of night. “Ready to go, Dad?” ... Summer was always her favourite time of the year. The spring lambs had already began to run around and the spring chicks were nearly ready to start giving eggs. The farm would be in bloom and she would be able to venture around her garden, happily and content, picking up the wildlife and finding new ways to plant her most treasured flowers. When the Autumn came, she could find new things to replant, new things to do, sit in the garden and watch the leaves fall one by one from the trees, falling to the ground to begin a new life as some other part of existence. But summer was by far her favourite. Stood beneath the Oak tree, sheltered and shaded by the huge branches that reached out into the clear blue sky, the man stood back and watched as the mahogany coffin was lowered into the ground. Friends and family stood around, his daughter, his most precious and beloved daughter stayed beside him, holding onto his arm, linking him for comfort as his wife had done. Tears were shed, small droplets of water fell from his eyes but he wasn’t sad. He wouldn’t utter her name in sorrow and he would never be solemn. Life would continue, flowers would burst forth into existence and the cycle would begin again in the Fall. As the Chaplain finished his final words, everyone began to walk away and the daughter pulled on his arm very gently, smiling with words of encouragement and being strong when he couldn’t face to reality of it all. She would be there, she said, she would always be there helping and offering a guiding hand, there to protect and to love as he had promised her when she was first born. His daughter, his only daughter; his pride and joy. What are little girls made of? The same light their mother’s are.
  15. *protect AJ and puts him in the basement* This proves it, bribery works Wahay everyone! Congratulations! I must've read everyone's entries about 3 or 4 times each, all fantastic! Just picked the title for the next one so bum's in gear!
  16. ((Cha'Rihan)) Tearing through the forests, sharp stones and fallen branches digging into his bare feet. He cold hear the commands echoing behind him, all of them rippling through the trees, falling into his ears, lurching through him, telling him to cease his futile escape and join, go with them. They already had her, he knew that much. There was no purpose behind the chase except for the mere fun of it. Tears were freely flowing down his face; he didn't deserve to die. He'd done nothing. As he ran forward, the knife in the darkness skewered his body, the sword that ran through his stomach as he ran into its sharp edge, coming face to face with her smirking smile, her simpering grin. Eyes coated over with lust for blood, passion, power... He gasped as she thrust the sword further into him, releasing the handle from her grasp and letting him fall to the forest floor. "On your knees, veruul," she commanded, her voice sounding out across the giant forest of cha'Rihan. "V'yy'al, fvai..." *** Galan gasped loudly as the pain rippled through his body and he lurched upward, crying out to the bloody face in the darkness. He grasped into the thin air in front of him, kicking at the covers over his legs, the bindings, and the shackles holding him down onto the bed. Gasping loudly for breath, he looked down and pulled his feet towards him, throwing back the covers. No shackles. He covered his face with his hands. No blood. He felt his chest rising and falling heavily, his body racked with a fresh sheen of sweat, covering him from head to toe. As he slowly sat up in the bed, pressing his back against the headboard, he looked at the scar on his arm, tracing it softly with his thumb. He shouldn't have been there that day; he shouldn't have been there at all. The room's brightness grew to a dim light, banishing the shadows into the crevices, away from his mind and the edges of his bed. Kicking off the covers, Galan swung his legs over the side, his bare feet touching on the cold floor. A hand pressed lightly to his back and he snapped. His calm reserve over taken by a wanton need for blood. Turning sharply, he grasped the hand and forced it down to the bed above the head of his bedfellow. She groaned softly, fighting the grip he had on her hand weakly. Opening her eyes as the light began to pour in, the first image she saw was his face above her, remembering that it was also the last image she had seen in the night before sleep had took over. She smiled slightly and settled her fingers into his hand, arching up into him. "Tell me it isn't the morning…" Galan smiled, releasing his grip on her hand and softly holding it above her tired head on the pillow. Turning onto his side, he brought his other hand up to trace the curves of her body down her side, coming to rest on her hip. "I will not tell you." ** His sleep disturbed, Galan cuddled closer to his wife, burying his face in her hair, pressing his face into her softness and closing his eyes again. His children did the same with pillows, teddy bears and his daughter with her doll but their father liked to cuddle with his wife, her cushiony soft flesh much nicer then the small belongings. His mumblings came and went as his body twisted and writhed under the veil of a dream before tugging away from his wife and landing on his side of the marital bed. Slowly, his eyes flickered open to the darkness of the bedroom, the only light source coming from his daughter’s night light from underneath the doorway. It wasn’t enough to actually see what was in his room, only enough to let his imagination make the assumptions. The canopy was a white-sheeted ghost, the robe hanging from the bedpost was someone watching them sleep, and the tall wardrobe was barely open and so was hiding someone inside then a shadow moved across the light from the small gap below the door. Galan blinked, rapidly but lay back and looked to the door. There was no shadow there; he’d been mistaken. He frowned in the darkness then covered his face with his hands… feanna. His mind was settling down, that was the problem. A bad day and now a bad night, that was all he needed. He closed his eyes and slowly settled back down into the pillow and comfortable mattress again, his wife’s noises, her breathing calming him down. He yawned and let his forearm rest across his eyes. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep… A noise from outside, like a footstep on the wooden slating outside the bedroom window. His eyes immediately looked to the light below the door. What the hell was that? “One of the children,” came his wife’s sleepy addition and he believed her. It was probably Maec getting out of bed for a drink or something to eat, or even one of the servants still wandering around the House preparing for the morning’s work. As the next noise came, it was too heavy to be Maec but it was a footstep. Then another. And another. Galan’s jaw stiffened and he looked down to the door again. Nothing. Old creaking of the floor boards, the house was old, it was bound to creak at some point during the night he must’ve always been asleep when it decided to do so. But THAT wasn’t someone’s footsteps. He lurched himself out of bed and pulled his trousers on, walking to the doorway and opening the heavy wooden door quickly to catch someone outside. No one was there in the pitch-blackness but Ael’s nightlight wasn’t on. Galan craned his neck to listen for her soft sobs but there was nothing. His stomach dropped. He ran to her room, flinging the door open and caught it just before it slammed against the wall. Ael wasn’t in bed. His daughter was missing. He crossed the landing to his son’s bedroom and opened the door; nothing. He wasn’t there either. Panic had settled in, where were they? They knew better then to venture from their rooms at night, not alone but together. He stood for a second, feeling nauseous, trying to work out where either of them would or could be before running back to the bedroom and alerting his wife. In less than half an hour, the whole House was awake and searching for the two youths. Servants, Uncles and Aunts, cousins, grandparents; all out looking for them. The men took up the household weapons and went outside to the grounds, searching around the mazes, through he forest and returning with nothing. The House had been turned upside down, searched from top to bottom, every hiding place, ever nook and cranny was searched. By morning there was still no sign of them. “Snatched from their beds!” Galan shouted, pacing back and forth in the living quarters, tears making their quivering pathways down his cheeks and plunging the distance onto the floor beneath his walking feet. His arms folded protectively across his chest as his wife sat on the sofa and watched her husband; her heart breaking into the arms of her mother. Everything made him ill as he looked out of the long French windows into the gardens of their home, dawn just breaking over the hills in the distance and the promise that his children were out there somewhere, only where? His beloved daughter, Ael; the muse herself, beautiful long flowing black hair that would make her the perfect young woman to bring up and marry off then his son, Maec, who would be starting his training soon. Gone. Counseled into staying at home and waiting for the children to return in due time, it was understood by the local authority that teenagers ran away to prove themselves in the eyes of their parents but Maec wouldn’t have taken his sister with him. A weighty hand fell upon Galan’s shoulder, rousing him from a blissful daydream. His own father’s eyes boring into his, still giving him instruction, still trying to show him the Rihannsu methods but this time he knew what must be done. With a regretful nod, Galan lowered his head to his father. ** For two months, neither the House nor Eivess had seen Galan Taev. He had vanished it seemed, just like her children into the deserted plains of Ch’Rihan. The children however, were accounted for eventually. Their lifeless bodies were found by a local in the city and returned to the mother to be properly buried. The two were laid out on the biers, heads next to one another and dressed ceremonially, cried over by countless followers of their household and those who journeyed out of their own cities to be with the family during this time of grief. Still there was no sign of Galan. If he had received word of his children’s death, he would have come home but there was nothing. No tap on the window, no shadow beside the bath in the grounds, no footsteps following behind his faithful wife in the hedge maze and no playful baiting in their private quarters. She was left alone to deal with this, surrounded only by her own parents and their servants. Eivess took a lover but spent her nights lying awake and watching the shapes form on the ceiling, watching and waiting for her husband’s return. For four months there was no word from him until the servant came bounding up through the House and bursting into Eivess’s private chambers clutching something. The lover launched from the bed and was about to reprimand the hfai when the servant handed a small bundle over to Eivess, placing the baby in her arms. A look passed between them; an honour bound servant to her mistress, making Eivess leave her lover and run with the child now tucked safely against her breast down the stairs to the living quarters. A shape in the doorway, her rain covered husband watching for her. When she saw him, she saw his face. Bruised, beaten, cut and splintered, gaunt, pale and unhealthy in the moonlight streaming through the open window but it was unmistakably Galan. She instinctively wanted to throw her arms around him but refrained, glancing from his eyes to the baby’s now sleeping effortlessly curled to her breast. “Honour,” Galan replied simply. Lt,JG Ethan Brice Engineering Officer USS Independence
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