Consul Report
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Introduction
_Ataru. The acrobat's form. If the practitioner is fast enough, he could appear as if only a blur. Blinding, random strikes. And now, Alaris Jinn had mastered it. The first time he saw it, it was in the hands of his former mentor, Braecen Kaeth. Now, once again, he was feeling the weight of the old Consul on his shoulders. Only this time, it wasn't from above. This time it came from without.
_ "Arcona."
Brothers and Sisters of Clan Plagueis
We've got a couple of things on the horizon coming your way. Most of you already know about the big event that the Clan Summit is preparing for you, and we expect to launch that in the summer, but there's something just around the corner that's being set up. I'm not going to give too much away, just that we've got a chance at some shinies. And we love shinies.
In other news, I'm happy to announce the promotion of JH Wuntila to Dark Jedi Knight. Many congratulations to him. Also, PRT Vengen Stormshadow has been promotoed to Guardian. Congrats to him as well!
One more thing. Check out my new banners, yes? I'd like to thank Robin Hawk for the sexiness that are my banners.
From the Wiki
The Wiki Basics course in the Shadow Academy has been updated to co-ordinate with all of the updates that we on the Wiki staff have made. Still some more updates to come. Also, I've made the exam a little bit tougher, so now you actually have to think instead of just answering a multiple choice.
One more thing, always remember to use the Show Preview button.
Another Moment with Alaris
INJUSTICE!
No, I do not refer to the clear bias against the Detroit Red Wings. Yes, it's obvious to anyone else that when you take a stick in the face and start to bleed there should be a penalty against he who caused said injury, but NO, this is NOT of what I speak.
It is no secret that I'm a man who loves sandwiches. Ones that involve ham, or turkey, or ham and turkey, usually with some sort of cheese and lettuce, and always with a mustard, be it yellowed, stone, spicey, honey, or other are my favorites.
I have sought the many varieties of meats available to me through my local grocer. There, in a long, open freezer aisle, packed between entirely too many brands of orange cheese-like substances and an array of tubular meats that aren't entirely unlike hotdogs, resides an arsenal of lunch meats begging to become my lunches.
I have grown weary of these prepackaged meats. It's not a flavor, quality, or cost issue, mind you. After years of sandwich-making, I have determined that the packagers, robots on an assembly line though they may be, are filled with hatred for all things turkey.
Every day I struggle with a mound of turkey shavings. I look at the lump to take in the unholy turkey-mâché of it. You try to peel off a single slice with the kind of precision bomb squad veterans dream of, but it always tears at the last second. You would have to work to make your turkey this unmanageable. Either the machines behind the packaging have gained some limited form of sentience -- just enough to know they hate work -- or the men responsible for their design were attacked by wild turkeys as children and had spent their entire lives training to become engineers so they could exact vicarious revenge through their automaton warriors.
You pile up two or three layers of ripped, wadded up turkey, and your sandwich suddenly more resembles botched abdominal surgery than anything edible.
Now, any zen sandwich master will tell you a sandwich's aesthetics are every bit as important as its flavor, and so we have moved on to the deli.
Here, at the deli, there is sanity. Men and women carefully cut every slice of turkey, ham, cheeses of all sorts, and other meats as well. They do not wad them up in a ball, wrap it in plastic, and curse the day they were put into operation. They can be talked to, reasoned with. They don't hate turkey, they delight in its distribution.
I like my slices to be thick and this makes me a rogue of some kind. When I stand in line, there's usually a couple housewives in front of me. Middle-aged or so. They eye me suspiciously from the corners of their glasses.
"Who is he?" they ask themselves. "What's he doing in the deli section? He's a young man, maybe he thinks this is where the porno video GTAs are sold like I heard about on the news."
These women, they want their turkey thin. "A half pound of turkey," they'll say. "And make it thin."
And the butcher, if you can call a guy who does little else with meat other than push a handle back and forth across it all day, he'll cut a slice. A thin slice. He'll hold it up for inspection and ask, "How's this?" even though he already knows the answer.
"Thinner!" they say as with one voice. "Thinner!" they howl like the damned screaming for redemption.
I've seen these slices. They're quite thin.
I've got to wonder what these women think they're going to get. What are they looking for? And to what end? Do they set up complex lunch meat-related experiments at home, shooting electron beams through slices of atom-thin meat to find out if turkey is a wave or a particle? Are they trying to find string theory's wrapped up dimensions? Are they testing the Planck length?
Me? I like lunch meat thick enough that it won't fall through my bread. But what do I know? I'm one of those staunch turkey-wave theorists.
Life and Death Through Darkness,
OE Alaris Jinn di Plagia (Obelisk)/CON-Wiki-DOC/Clan Plagueis
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