Some Count-Noteula cereal:
1. Birthdays suck. Yeah. Today, September 28, is mine. Woo. I really have no reason to be bummed about it, but I am. It's like... tradition. (Shrug)
Aww...here's a belated 'Happy Birthday' anyway.
Imoen Llyr turned in her seat. “Mind if I ask you a question, Sarge?”
Yes he does!
“Why do you want to know?”
She turned back, her expression registering confusion, as if she couldn’t comprehend why he would even need to ask such a thing. “Why do I want to know? Because I think of these things sometimes. I was getting dressed the other morning, and for a second I couldn’t remember which I did first. So, I started thinking about it. Does everybody do it the same way? Is it a left handed – right handed thing?”
Typical Imoen.
“Fourteen minutes…” A pause. “Wanna talk socks?”
“No.”
“It’s just a question.”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
Poor, poor Val!
“You’ll get the hang of it.” Despite the storm-clouds that had been dominating Falynn’s mood of late, she managed to scrape together a small smile to reassure the young Ensign. “But until you do, stick close to the rest of us, ok?”
Aw, Lynn seems good at looking after Nalia.
She can rise above her own troubles to be there for her, just as a good leader should.
The smooth, gentle pull of the trigger belied the sheer violence inherent in the weapon’s firing. A high pitched electrical whine sounded as the magnetic firing mechanisms built up their charge, followed by the crackle of static as the metallic “bullet” was hurled from the rifle’s barrel. Down below, several hundred yards away, a Dominion tank commander had poked his head out of his vehicle’s hatch in order to get a better look at the surrounding area. Valygar’s shot, a bullet half an inch in diameter, turned the orc’s head into a split watermelon.
SPLATTER!
Today, Corporal Minsc “Castle” Vaonnor was doing things by the book. The Demolisher-class heavy armored vehicle bucked wildly as the high explosive, armor piercing round tore through the armor belts on its right side and exploded well within the protective shell. The durable steel plating that had been designed to repel such attacks buckled inwards, then shattered, sending thousands upon thousands of jagged metal fragments ricocheting about the interior. The tank’s gunner and loader were the first to perish, torn to pieces and effectively eviscerated by the shrapnel. The hail of splintered durasteel then perforated the rest of the crew, ripping bloody holes in any and all exposed flesh. Fires sprang up in the cabin, searing whatever was left. With its crew annihilated, the armored behemoth was useless, slowly rolling to a stop, its weapons sitting impotently idle.
Oh, ouch, ouch, ouch!
