Casey didn't mind the snow at all. It reminded him of missions in eastern Europe, back when the Cold War was still a good time, that were a lot more interesting than making sure Chuck Bartowski didn't accidentally strangle himself with the cord to an X-Box controller, and was generally a nice change of pace.

He even found himself a nice little mystery to investigate. Actually, it seemed to be a pretty large mystery, judging from the huge footprints he kept finding in the snow on his patrols of the perimeter. It hadn't attacked yet, but Casey wasn't about to let it get to some innocent civilian before he at least knew what they were dealing with. So he bundled up in a parka trimmed in questionable synthetic fur that he found in the clothes box and set out on the hunt.

It wasn't long before he found himself facing something even larger and grumpier looking than himself.


[This is what Casey is looking at.]

There wasn't much by way of lounging on the beach these days, not unless you wanted to end up with a serious case of hypothermia and possibly be pummeled to death, but George liked actual winter all the better. Sure, it meant tracking snow in from outside and the accompanying puddles of water that invariably got stepped in after one or the other of the twins had already divested themselves of the appopriate footwear, but puddles such as those could be used offensively, particularly if they were left purposely close to a bed while one's twin were sleeping. George himself had several pairs of thick, woolen socks set out to dry after arguments such as those, if they could indeed be called arguments.

His current pair of socks, thankfully, was dry, and he'd even taken off his heavy shoes so he could pad about the rec room (or to the kitchen if there were need) in just his socks. He didn't plan on leaving the Compound after all, and so didn't see the harm. George had settled down with a couple of books and a mug of cocoa that was long gone and never refilled. He'd been charmed by the writing of a Muggle called Terry Pratchett several weeks earlier, and had discovered that he had the tendency of giggling aloud when he found something particularly entertaining.

It made for an interesting sight, he was sure: a redhead wearing a hideously ugly knit sweater (blue, with a giant white snowflake) and a pair of courderoys, sitting in an overstuffed chair with a book, his socks pulled down just a little so that he couldn't feel the seam against his toes or the heel over his heels. His thoughts were elsewhere however, and both entertained and occupied, so much so that he did snicker or giggle intermitently.

So engrossed was George in his book that he didn't notice a thick sheet of parchment (which had been folded once more than necessary) slip from behind the hard back cover of his book and between his hip and the chair arm. It took him the several pages until the end of the chapter, in fact, to realize that something had fallen out. George paused, closing the book's cover over his thumb so he wouldn't lose his place, and blinked as he took up the parchment.

His lips parted when he saw the title inside, then grew slowly into a grin. "Well, there you are, old girl," he said fondly as he put the book down on his lap. It promptly slid down his courderoy-clad thigh and fell to the floor. George took up the Map with both hands and opened it up. It was blank, of course, but what did that matter? "I solemly swear that I am up to no good," he said out of instinct, and thoughtfully as well.

A pleasant surprise for a winter day, and a nice reminder as well.


[[That's right, George has found the Marauder's Map he and Fred bequeathed to Harry Potter during their fifth year! He welcomes all friends, old and new! Also, family members and pretty ladies! ST/LT both fine, as I will be a little scarce until this evening, 7 or 8 p.m. EST.]]

Since Reynald had been born in the middle of the heaviest blizzard Jeyne could remember on the island, perhaps it was only fitting that he was so enthralled by snow now. He would stay outside in it all day if Jeyne would let him. Because she feared he would get sick again, she didn't, but she did let him stay out as long as she dared. Reynald almost never cried or argued with her or had what Susan called a tantrum, but when Jeyne made him come in from the cold he stomped his snow-crusted boots and said no in the loudest voice he could manage. It was surprising, and of course Jeyne would not encourage rudeness, but it did please her that her son was showing signs of spirit and independence. She knew too well what happened to one who was always meek and well-mannered.

As much as he liked playing in the snow (especially with Rickon and Eddara), Reynald's absolute favourite thing to do was to ride the small train that had magically appeared with the snow, going from place to place across the island all day and night. One day Jeyne had taken him for a ride that took nearly all day, and he had said "twain, twain, twain!" and made train-like noises incessantly until Jeyne had promised to take him out again.

That was why Reynald and Jeyne were riding the train yet again, bundled up in cloaks and boots and layers of warm clothes. If the past was any guide Jeyne knew the snow would not last much longer and she wanted him to have his fun while he could. Jeyne had a flask of hot spiced cider keeping her hands warm beneath her cloak; Reynald alternated between bouncing up and down in the seat saying ch-ch-ch-ch-ch and simply staring quietly as the snow-covered scenery scrolled past them.

Alcuin had not let the Longest Night pass without his own private way of celebrating, but now with some time to himself and snow still think on the ground, he made his way to Elua's temple, a place for worship that Phedre had cultivated and which Alcuin was grateful for.

He did not come here as often as Phedre, and very rarely did he pay homage to Naamah at the alter with the carved dove, as she did. It was instead at the marble statue of Blessed Elua (gifted by the island to the now-gone Ysandre) where he knelt after walking past the winter-dormant flowers and the other plants now flecked with snow.

He had been troubled of late, perhaps more than he cared to admit, by the intricacies of his relationship with Scotty, particularly with respect to the other man's feelings about Alcuin's past, as well as his relationship with Giles. "You bid us love as thou wilt," he murmured in French, head bowed. "And I do - without reservation, save one. I never wish for anyone else to pay the price of it. How can I know if my love does more harm than good?"

He knelt there for a long moment, no closer to answers than before. He was already rising when he thought he heard snow crunch behind him, and he turned. He was accustomed to the curious happening by the temple, and indeed, he was always happy to tell the story of Elua to anyone who cared to listen.

A woman's job was to be a mother.

Women were the child-bearers, the nurturers, the ones who stayed behind to keep the hearth warm. She'd been taught this, the one lesson she was meant to learn above all others... Her job was to submit. Submit to God. Submit to her husband. Submit to the elders. To the first wives. To everyone. She'd learned it. She knew the words. She could get by when she needed to, but her deepest, darkest secret, the secret that might've ruined everything back home if she'd only stayed around long enough to witness the aftermath... It still plagued her.

Nicki Grant never wanted to be a mother.

The holy day had come and gone, with all it's hedonistic merriment and shockingly little prayer, and Nicki Grant had no children, no family to celebrate for. There were no presents. No carols to be sung. The decorations had been hung by someone else. She'd never wanted to be a mother, but she took pride in her home, pride in her Christmas spirit, and pride in the Hendrickson family feast.

But this year none of it had been her own, and she realized that she'd been a mother for eight years and whether she'd ever wanted to be one or not, now that she wasn't, now that she wasn't even a wife, every last bit of purpose had been stripped from her.

It was late and she was on her hands and knees in the kitchen, scrubbing the baseboards with a panicked kind of haste. She'd already done the dishes, moped the floor and dusted the cabinets. She didn't have a home to keep spotless -- the hut hardly counted, though she'd made it as presentable as she possibly could -- so she'd have to settle for scrubbing someone else's kitchen. She'd been a horrible mother and a horrible wife, but Nicki Grant had always known how to take care of things.

Sitting back on her heels, she dropped the sponge to the floor, tearing the rubber kitchen gloves off with a sigh, and she looked down at the wedding band on her finger. She stared, twisting it 'round on her finger, and wondered what she could get for it in trade.

She had no use for it, anymore.

[[Find her in the compound kitchen well after dark. Now's as fine a time to meet her as any. ST/LT always welcome.]]

For the last thirty minutes of Leonard McCoy's life, he's been witness to something that he knew about in theory, but that he damn well didn't want to have to see. The conversation onboard the Enterprise during the Vulcan rescue mission is as good as burned into his mind and so he knows all about alternate realities and his life being altered before he was even damn well able to change it for himself, but he didn't ever expect to find the proof of it.

Of course, this place isn't exactly the kind that just handholds you and gives you kittens and puppies and chocolate while you relive the best days of your life. McCoy shouldn't have been surprised, and yet, here he is watching ancient holovids (that took him an hour to figure out how to use) and instead of getting something good like the always-enjoyable Gone With The Wind or some of the Westerns he's read about in his history, he's found something a hell of a lot more terrifying.

He's not sure who the hell has put all this together, but there is no doubt in his mind that he's watching an Uhura he knows and the crewmembers he's come to trust and even like in most cases. He's watching all of them except for that pointy-eared bastard and he figures that out soon enough.

He's just not sure he likes the fact that he also realizes at approximately the exact same time that the reason that Spock the Prime has managed to come out living even though he's supposedly dead is because the hobgoblin had gone and taken residence in his brain. His brain, which brought him to the other goddamn issue.

What the hell are you supposed to do when you're met with a counterpart you can't interact with? McCoy wants to ask questions, a dozen questions, a hundred. He wants to know about Jocelyn, about Joanna, about David McCoy, if it's all the same or if it can be avoided, but he can't. So instead, he's left watching a screen and giving vocal opinions every now and then.

"Goddamn it, Jim," he sighs as he stares at an older version of his best goddamn friend on a screen trying to rescue him from some goddamn mental asylum. "You think this'll end well?" It just never does, not in space, because it's...well, the same old rote as always.

[Mildly different canon-puncture than usual. ST & LT very welcome, you can assume this is the first he's watched and they may watch more if wanted]

The 27th of each month now comes with a "What I Loved This Month" post, in which there will be free for all of kudos, thread pimpage, and just generally celebrating the things that you enjoyed. (Of course everyone is still encouraged to do these things whenever you would like, as they come up, but it's always nice to have a designated place for it.) These posts are intended to serve as a place to appreciate our fellow players and the stories we tell together, and if it turns into a sort of highlight reel to keep everybody caught up with what's going on with everybody else in-game, then that is just a bonus. :D [/review]

This is your official "What I Loved This Month" post. What did you love reading, what did you love playing, what keeps you coming back for more?

Logically speaking, this should no longer be a time when her heart hurts.

Temperance knew herself to be more blessed here than she thought she would be at home; even with the parts of her that still longed for her lab friends. She had a family, a real family: the most perfect child to have ever been born, despite the statistical improbability of such a thing, and the most perfectly loving husband-- a husband, despite the statistical improbability of that-- and one she knew wouldn't leave her. For all her fears, Temperance held it as absolute truth that he wouldn't, and whatever force tried to separate them would eventually fail.

Because everything in this universe happens more than once. There is no unique event.

She trusted the universe, even if it pulled him away, to stay true to its very nature, and propel him back. They had Diana, too, a promise in an ocean of possibilities.

Even with all of this very surprising faith, Temperance still found herself standing in the small island cemetery at dusk, bundled up and tending to the graves solemnly, gently. She shoveled the paths, brushed the snow away from each headstone. Her gloved hands lingered over the names on each. No matter what they had done in life, she had taken them through death, knowing their very bones before they were put to rest here. This was the part of the job she still couldn't describe to anyone, how she kept each memory with her. There was no such thing as holding someone's heart or skull in her hands and not taking with it a bit of who they had been.

Temperance put a tiny candle on each headstone, until the little graveyard flickered with lights. She didn't pray; she didn't even remember to think of her parents until she'd finished. "I'll stay here until the lights burn out," she told the graveyard. "Don't worry."

The biggest Island event of the year will be upon us in less than a week: New Year's Eve. Traditionally, this event sees the Compound transformed into the sort of massive party that you only dream of, complete with endless food and drink of any kind, music, revelry, and of course the countdown and resulting kisses.

Imagine that cell phones work on the island and your pup has brought their trusty Blackberry or Motorola to the party. What sort of dubious text messages might they send? Login to the appropriate journal and comment with them!

NOTE: January's Pups of the Future will be posted on January 2nd due to NYE.

Enjolras really wasn't the reveling, celebrating sort. He'd spent most of the month ignoring the festive surroundings and making his way in and out of the compound with little glancing around, almost affronted at the ridiculous changes the cold weather had brought with it, and though Noël was now all but over, he continued this practice, bundled up for protection from the snow and wind, cheeks pink and hair a bit mussed after a long, thoughtful walk.

He didn't slow as he entered the compound, head bowed slightly as he refused to look at the silly lights and decorations strewn around the rec room as he strode through the doorway, intending to simply scan the bookshelf for anything worthwhile before descending to his room.

The intention was halted quite abruptly, as was Enjolras' forward motion, as he passed through the door. He frowned, suddenly unable to stir more than a step in any direction from the doorway, held in place by some unseen force. "Dieu, qu'est-ce que c'est, maintenant?" he groaned, more resigned than anything else by now. The island's tricks were no more amusing than they had been when he first arrived, but at least they were somewhat predictable now. Hopefully an explanation would occur to him soon, or perhaps someone else might know what had caused this. Meanwhile he leant against one side of the door frame, scowling slightly with his arms folded across his chest.

[Set to late evening on Christmas Day. Anyone want to kiss a cranky Frenchman under the magic mistletoe, or at least tell him what he has to do to get unstuck? :D ST and late tags so very welcome.]

Nick's been busy since he arrived on the island. Once he realized that this isn't a temporary rest stop, that riding the train just brings him back where he started, he set about ensuring that Christmas was going to be a merry one no matter where he spent it and who he spent it with. He has faith in the universe that everything is going to turn out okay.

It was a fair amount of work, and without the kind of assistance he was used to, but the tools were available and the island was full of friendly people who were always ready to give an old man a hand, and so Nick managed to produce everything he needed to and more. No one on the island will go wanting this Christmas.

And so on the morning of the big day, with a cup of tea and a plate of sugar cookies to tide him over, Nick finds a comfortable seat in the rec room and sets his overfull red sack beside him and makes himself available to all comers.


[ st;lt welcome. tag in if you'd like a gift from Ol' Saint Nick. gifts will all be small and handcrafted; this is not the NDPD gift that you will receive later from the island. and give poor Nick's mun a hint as to what you might appreciate; he might know, but I sure don't. :) ]

Happy Christmas everyone!

This is officially the last day of secret santa (aka the big santa reveal). Also remember that if you want to post a little something for someone who wasn't your santa (or didn't participate at all) then feel free to do so! Let's have a massive Free-For-All!

It’s both the first and last thing I expect to see when I come home. I mean, cemeteries have long been a staple of my life, and I have enough dead friends to warrant my very own. Combine that indelible fact with the knowledge of how this place likes to operate, and it’s a real wonder there aren’t entire rows of tombstones outside my hut to go along with the newly arrived Uncle Ben’s. Still, wonder or not, it catches me off-guard -- enough so that for a moment I can’t help but worry I’m hallucinating from a lack of sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, but I veer off the well-trudged path to my door to get a better look, anyway, realizing only when the snow stops crunching under my feet that the grave marker’s not as alone as I originally thought, seeing as I’m in the middle of a winter wonderland, but standing on fresh turf. Up close, it’s about as conspicuous as Rhino at a Mensa meeting. Inexplicably, though, it pings a sense of déjà vu I can’t quite pinpoint. I’ve visited his grave more times than I can count, sure, but there’s something different about it now that’s not sitting right -- more so than it being here to begin with.

( Cut for length. )

[Given the timing, ST and LT are definite necessities. And though it probably goes without saying, this isn’t the greatest time to meet him.]