Walsingham

Dagon, can we assume for a moment that every single other person on this thread isn't both a retard and a failure at the mathematics many of them are trained in? If you do this, then we will assume you are not a retard either. If this is the case then it is possible we have misunderstood your point. Can you try explaining it clearly and in bullet point form so we can tie this up?

Isn't there a bit in The Witcher where you get invited by a women to her cave for some politics? I remember saying to my friend "I hope both of those is a euphemism. Because if one of them isn't this is going to be weird and possibly boring."

I think the cue may be in his title...

The moon and the vulture thing? That just makes that album cover beyond art.

Give me a shout via PM with your email. I may be able to come up with something. How are you with C++?

Zurine sounds like the sort of name on might fall in love with. And a bit Spanish.

A telescopic baton with appropriate training would probably be one of the best instruments (reach, light, non-lethal), but entertainingly, the punishment for carrying one here is greater than for carrying a knife. No I mean a stick like a walking stick or hockey stick. The former being far more easy to carry. Not sure I regard either as sensible. In my experience the only kind of fights which are forced on you are those involving multiple fethwits or one enormous fethwit. Either way carrying a knife or stick won't do much by itself. I should stress the people who told me this were all military types who'd gained their experience in street fights around the way. They were all either very big or very very strong or both. I think for 90% of people you're better off simply talking your way out or running away or being with a bunch of proper friends who will back you up.

Suddenly the atmosphere of the place intensifies. The enormous bull, fully a half size larger than anything the players have seen paces forward, moving almost diagonally beneath the compulsion of its grotesquely huge shoulders and horned head. The boy seems impossibly small and fragile, chin formally uplifted, and shoulders back. Stepping away from the spear in the ground, he moves an arm in a minimal gesture to invite the charge, but the bull seems wary. Joaquin whispers to the players, "No doubt you northerners, you dwarves have your form of courage. But see here this is Magritta. This is courage. That boy is barely twelve years old, yet see how he stands, trusting to his honour to save his face, and his skill to save his arse. To fight impossible fights and to look good doing it. That is Magritta!" The bull charges, but the boy has initiative, and lunges in with a spear, causing only a glancing hit. He staggers to get out of the way, and the bull launches up in the air, and slashes with a hoof, catching the boy's calf and drawing blood. There is a gasp from the crowd, and Joaquin's moustache twists in disappointment. But the boy is not yet down, and plants his spear in the bull's shoulder. "He will plant both spears and these will slow the bull. He is then allowed to draw his sword, and attack the animal from the sides and rear." Says Joaquin, by way of explanation. However, it is not to be, as the boy turns with his spear, jabbing ineffectively at the animal's face. The bull instead, tumbles forward with a great pronk of its back legs, and skewers the poor lad with a huge horn. The result being that as he flops on the beast's horn the crowd turn disappointed back to their conversations. Some cheer, but too few to give any sense of special occasion. Joaquin cals for bread, olives, and more wine. He offers a perfunctory toast to the boy's courage, and casts a tired eye on the attendants whose job it is to enter the arena and remove both bull and boy for the next contest. However, even the slightly sour mood caused by the introduction cannot wholly marr the way Joaquin introduces the man who now enters. Whole sections of the crowd raise their arms and wave and shout. He begins to do a strutting walk around the stadium, giving every apeparance of inspecting the spectators rather than the reverse. As he nears the players they can see he wear and outrageously coulourful constume. Green tights, red trousres, blue waistcoat studded with shiny objects which are too far away to make out. Possibly mirrors, possibly metal medals. In his hand he carries horizontally a short stave from which hang similarly coloured leather tassles. From which depends a curtain of some whispy substance. This, Joaquin explains is a mesh of mithril wires. The weapon, an auroceda is what gives the combatant his name as an aurocador, and it is common to all these elite fighters. As he nears the return of his circuit, drums commence beating, and people cheer, women scream and the beast's gate opens. But this time, the animal doesn't merely exceed a bull. It is fully three times the size of any common bull, an anaurocj. It paces into the arena without any nervousness or disturbance. It's bulging purple eyes and off white flanks contrast with a mouth that is already forthing bloody saliva as it appears to be chewing its own tongue with anticipation. "The aurocador's task is to flay the anaurocj with the auroceda as it goes past in a charge. The contest rarely kills the anaurocj, and nor does it normally kill the fighter. The contest ends with the submission of the aurocj or the death of the aurocador. Each time they fight they must change what they do, or their opponent will exploit the consistencies, and it is this which makes the fights so endlessly interesting for the fans..." Says Joaquin, twisting his moustache in one hand, but he is interrupted and he slaps one hand to his side and shouts with alarm. A small brown shape is already darting into the crowd clutching an object! Both players take little encouragement to launch themselves after the thief, although the human takes longer, as he tries to peer over the heads of the crowd as the little man speeds between their legs, agilely on all fours. The dwarf laughs psychotically at this, and pursues in similar fashion, bearing the man to the ground, and wrestling with him, to receive a kick in the face for his trouble. Nevin, meanwhile eventually catches up, and dives over members of the crowd to land atop the struggling mass. There then ensues about eight rounds of ineffectual flailing as neither side manage to do significant damage (no wounds) using their fists, feet and teeth. Indeed, some members of the crowd are even turning away in disinterest when the thief wriggles free and is nearly away when the dwarf fetches him a solid kick to the back of the knee and he falls face first, bringing his suntanned forehead smartly into contact with the worn edge of a the stone terrace with a sound like breaking watermelon. Thus greatly enthused, the players perfrom a rapid loot of the corpse, and only then realise that the sounds of fighting are not just coming from the arena. They shoulder through the crowd and see that four assailants in common working clothes are attacking Joaquin and his party. One guard is down, with blood streaming from his lower body, sobbing as he succumbs to the wound. The other guard is retreating slowly, and using his halberd like a stave to block the short sword attack of two attackers. Joaquin by contrast is backing down 'hill' towards the edge of the arena, his sabre glittering like his teeth as he fences with the thugs and their studded wooden clubs. Ths provokes a moment's understandable indecision, but the players swiftly decide to help out. And with brutal efficiency, draw their previously sheathed hammer and bow and together the attackers are defeated. Only one manages to escape into the crowd. Nothing can be done for the wounded guard, and neither player seems terribly bothered as does Joaquin. He calls for more wine, and when the vendor asks for payment Joaquin merely dismisses him with a wave of a bloodied glove. They all drink, and notice that while this has been going on the aurocador has finished the beast into submission, and it is being towed off the arena by more than six horses, inside a huge net of chains. Nevin makes a rude and insulting comment to the aurocador as he struts past, but very luckily for him he doesn't notice. ~ After this excitement, they return in moderate good humour to the Carcer Gorthoba where they are given a decent bedroom and locked in. In the morning they are treated to honeyed almond cakes, milk, meat, and Nevin is finally presented with a pair of trousers. Joaquin explains that he can't be bothered to watch over them all day, and offers the opinion that unless he did they'd only escape. He therefore suggests that instead they be permitted to tour the city under armed guard. An offer which they accept. I shan't relate the tale of their day's adventures as it largely revolved around their meeting with a new and temporary player (struggling under the name of Fishy McBiff) who helped prevent them being ambushed by yet MORE thugs on the wharf fronts. This enormously muscled man (strength 7 - about equal to a giant) simply informed their guards they should fornicate sideways and leave them alone. Passing his fellowship, strength, and leadership checks with flying colours the guards were surprisingly convinced and departed. There then followed a day on the booze, with the players getting engaged in drinking contests, kissing sailors (don't ask), and drawing up plans to steal a treasure galleon. Minimal experience poins were awarded but a huge laugh was had. However, the fun eventually ended as an angry Joaquin appeared (he tracked them via the trail of smashed stuff and laughing trollops) with a detail of nearly twenty guards. They were disarmed, and all three taken back to the carcer, where it emerged that the master had returned. He inspected them dismissively and ordered them confined under guard. They were therefore conveyed swiftly to a small downstairs guard room and locked in. This deflated mood ws interupted, however, when a young woman with brown hair burst into the room. Shutting the door behind her and leaning against it she said breathlessly "You have to come with me!" The dwarf and Fishy both saw simply a rich young woman, but Nevin was informed that there was something about this girl which instantly and utterly captivated him. Something intangible, or perhaps everything about her. So out of a combination of adventure, mischief, and enfatuation the players elected to do as she said. A ridiculous but awesome plan was sufficient to get them all out of the locked room. McBiff simply punched both arms into the wall where the guards were standing on either side of the door, and with his gigantic strength and a critical success managed to hit both men in the back of the head with loose stones smacked out of the old mortar. And so freed, and laughing at their good luck, the players were smuggled into a coach standing idle in the yard and driven at speed out of the carcer by the girl's loyal servants. Rattling through the streets, and onto the Calla Odiosa proved less disturbing than it might for everyone except Nevin. He was more or less intoxicated by the young woman's presence, but the others were more interested in the very lacklustre search of the carriage performed by the city guards. So they came onto the causeway through the swamps, and observed the ruined buildings there in the fading light of afternoon. The girl remains as quiet and indifferent as the large birds they see, standing in the creeks. Going up the hill into Carravosque the players barely have time to note the noisome servant streets before they crest the ridge into the teeth of a freshening breeze. A particularly fine villa is their destination, and they draw up in the grounds. Here they have just enough time to realise how smelly and ragged they are before they are shown across a lawn towards an ornamental bower. Here they are introduced into the audience of the Lady Maria-Anna Basajuan de Gorthoba; who sits with her brown haired daughter at her side. The Lady Maria-Anna is gravious but not indulgent as she questions them. For once the dwarf is believed, but Nevin fails to convince her of anything save his amnesia. The Lady divulges the plot that the girl with the golden hair was her daughter also, and the girl was dispatched to the mountains when young. Her husband believes the girl can be used in some poltical intrigue of hs own and the mother fears his ruthless nature may entail some loveless marriage or worse. She simply wants her daughter protected and free. Confessing to a lack of arms and armed retainers the Lady suggests an alternative to attempting to lock up the players. Fishy is sent on his way with a few shillings [the chap playing him was only in for one session] since he was barely involved. But the two main players were made an offer. Rather than be imprisoned or returned to her husband or let go (which could lead to them being recaptured quite easily), she suggests they be taken on as retainers in her service. To this end they will have to protect her daughter [who I need a name for, Gorth], remain within one day's ride of the Coty, and under cno circumstances divulge any iformation her husband or his men, or be taken captive by them again. To this end she is prepared to pay them ten gold pieces a week (which is about right for a skilled soldier) paid at the start of each week, and a bonus of thirty each at the end of the month provided they remain true and loyal. This is in addition to lodging at the villa in an outbuilding. So far the players are still considering their options.

Again, from personal experience, may I suggest you drink a litre of cheap rice whisky and charge a pack of large sewer rats waving a water bottle? You may have to enter sewers to do this. The rice whisky will help in this respect also.

I've been advised by Persons Who Know that if you insist on carrying something for self defence which doesn't go bang it should be a stick.

Ah. Then like the hunchback having physiotherapy I must stand corrected. I just dislike the guy for his totally bizarre personal crusade against the English. And the even more depressing number of people who believe the uttter boff in his crappy sci-fi quality 'historical' movies. I'm only tangentially bothered by him being an abusive partner. BUt I suppose I ought to be better informed.

It's the latter, I've known more than a few from before they came into possession of cards of the abovementioned marque. They are the garden variety buttholes, though, the real royal turds buy X-series beamers. Never known anybody with a Porsche Cayenne or an H2, but I suspect severe potence-related issues rather than an inherently warped personality. LOL Indeed.

Being romantic doesn't necessarily mean you want to settle down. In fact on reflection I'd say quite the reverse.

WTF Junai? Didn't someone say he broke her teeth? You make it sound like she's some sort of evil pixie rather than a domestic abuse victim.

Charm... and grace... How old are you, exactly? No, really, sometimes I feel like I'm separated by a generation gap from people of my age, probably comes from having relatively old parents. LOL. Older than I should be, perhaps. But romance is inherently old fashioned from what I can gather. If you want to do something old fashioned then old fashioned virtues apply, I guess.

WoD, I genuinely apologise if I've offended you. It wasn't my intention to do so beyond the degree necessary to bring you up sharp. Because you need to get this straight in your head before you make a t*** of yourself in a job interview or something. And it's no use us just ignoring it for the sake of a quiet life. My stats tutor is a fellow of the Royal Statistical Society and he took up the best part of an hour talking about this exact point. His technical argument has been fielded already by others, so I won't repeat it. But what you are talking about is REALLY common. The example he used was cancer rates. People look at a map of Britain and say "Hello. There's a blotch here where everyone has four times the average cancer rate. Something must be up." But this is looking at probability all wrong, in exactly the way you are wrong. The question is how can we say a large array will not contain what you could describe usefully (but incorrectly) as outliers? And the point is that it is a distribution of probability. You can't say it's impossible without some explanatory factor. **** happens.

It might make more sense to just pay for a 'membership' at one of those places where you can drive a range of vehicles. Then they'd be taking care of all the maintenance, land, and the initial purchase. Don't get me wrong. I'd love to own a Casspir and I don't think I'd settle for renting, but it's worth considering.

I'd call it ****ed up. Having sex at 12 dates from when we had massive infant mortality and all kinds of diseases which might carry off mother as well. We also used to burn witches and stone gay people to death. Both things still go on and are just as retarded as ever.

New and I hope final question for Dagon: What is the probability of an unlikely event, say one in 10^1005 NEVER happening?

Where the **** are you going to get use out of it? In any case I thought we were still using all our FV432s. Since Labour failed to deliver the medium weight replacement.

Good question, Nepenthe. Quite simply it won't be creepy provided you do it with sufficient charm and grace. Keep in mind that there's a daring quality to it, and it's a gamble. Enjoy yourself. If they like it they'll really like it. If they don't then you tried something cute and it didn't work, so you move on.

I agree with Di. I mean, what has this fellow done to be labelled a hero anyway? He gets dressed up and pretends to be a hero?

Fine, you miserable ****ers. Go ahead and just trail her to a bar and get pissed. How very sodding romantic. IMO a bit of effort scares off the 'also ran' s but is essential if you want to get the really special ones. You can't expect to snaffle a clever and attractive woman by doing what every other fethwit is doing. At least you can't if you're a bit thick and funny looking like I am.

Yeah, I've always thought there was something sinister about math. Forget religion and politics, math is the root of all evil square root of all evil. LOl'd despite myself.

I'd certainly agree that there are folks who struggle to cope with sex even at an age over consent. It's an intense business (how English am I?) after all. However I'd take issue with the argument that the numbers are 'arbitrary'. It makes perfectly good sense to argue there is an age below which sex is some confidence interval of being unreasonable. As Spider Jerusalem said "Having sex on presexual people is wrong." It leaves permanent and serious mental scars. Scars which are not solely in the area of sexual relations, but affect every aspect of human relations and even broader levels of anxiety and fear. I am obliged to say that if mkreku could put forward a reasonable impartial test to establish that a person is indeed 'sexual' to an adult degree then that would have to be superior to an age system. However, I'd be bloody amazed if he or anyone esle could. And I _certainly do not think Roman Polanski had such a test in mid when he drugged and had sex with this girl_. Seriously, WTF? We have a massive go at the Roman Catholic Church (quite correctly) for excusing and prevaricating on child abuse. Then the liberal arts establishment excuse their own for the same thing?