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The Titillating Tales of an Incorrigible Half-Djinni

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With all of the crap going on in-world about the Jagers and their typed accents, I had to make a statement - especially seeing as I sometimes run around as a Jager in an alt.


I do not understand why people seem to single out the Jagers and their accents when there are lots and lots of other people who wander around with typed-out accents as well. We are -told- that people feel we are forcing RP on them, but I somehow doubt Kat Montpark hears that when she is typing out her wonderful, non-Jager accent. Or what about the Scottish brogues on the grid? Or other Irish lilts than Kat's? Or the Cockney fellow that I ran into in Babbage not too far back.


Or, better yet, the incredible Diogenes Kuhr and her great, fun accent as a Confederate widow in various sims where she RPs and visits? I've seen her 'speak' in Caledon and didn't hear a single complaint.


Somehow, I do not think that any of these other people experience the same accent intolerance as the Jagers do. And that has to make me wonder.


Oddly enough, whenever Maxim and I go out to areas other than the Victorian/Steampunk sims, no one has a problem with his accent. They might laugh at first and tease him, but no one takes -offense- to it. Some of the ladies in Old Hollywood even adore it - especially when he calls me 'dollink'.


Points to Ponder:
Is the intolerance toward the Jager accent part of a larger issue?


Why is it okay for someone to look different (furries, fae, faeries, elves, Jagers, genies, demons, Tinies, etc.) but not to 'sound' different?


Why is it okay to look 'normal', but 'sound' different (Babbage urchins, Deadwood RPers)?


Would a Jager accent coming from a Victorian human not associated with the Consulate be more accepted at large than coming from a pink-haired, purple Jager girl?



(My apologies to those I used as examples in this post without prior consent from them. I meant no disrespect because I *love* those accents!)

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I have been too busy to think, much less to write! I do intend to write more on the fic-that-was-never-meant-to-be-so-long. I also have to take pictures of Maxim, clean my Typist's room and 3 closets, clean -my- inventory, go after Dr. Obolensky... Oh, dear. The list -unfolds-.
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My friend Mnenyver had a challenge on her LJ about writing small pairings in a story or doing a picture or something. She listed out the fandoms she knew and I challenged her to do a Klaus/Scully pairing. Well, that got me to thinking and here is my very own (and way too long) version of how Scully met Klaus!
Read HereCollapse )
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I am woefully behind on my journal, but I haven't the time or the energy to catch it up just yet. So much has happened. I should still document the rest of my kidnapping and then there is the trial... but I cannot summon much interest in recounting those memories at the moment.

I am alone again for a time. Mr. Sawyer has been called away on urgent business. Truly, we do not spend a _great_ deal of time in each others presence, but it has always been comforting to know he was near. In fact, I confess to feeling more than a little ill-at-ease at night since he is gone. Every little creak of the barn seems ominous now. Every noise from the chickens induces a worry that more ninjas have come. Even my new little cat has my nerves on edge when she mews at the barn door.

Mr. Sawyer, hurry back. Please?

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Mr. Sawyer is working out very well on the farm. He is quiet, efficient, and responsible. The barnyard has never looked nicer! My latest cooking experiment didn't go well, so I did not share it with the poor man. I ate what I could and tossed the rest into the little compost pile back of the chicken coop. After cleaning the kitchen, I went for a walk toward Port Harbor and left a note for Dr. Mason at his lab. As I was returning to the main road, I met a very nice fellow named Scottie Melnik who was looking at the dog park sign. Since I am proud of our fair city, I welcomed him to Steelhead and struck up a conversation. What a nice fellow! He is well-spoken and well-mannered. We returned to my little home in the barn for apple pie and tea and it wasn't long before we were joined by Kat and Finn for a nice little visit.

Mr. Melnik was so impressed by Steelhead and he has joined the group and returned every night since his first visit! He looks very handsome in his new Victorian clothing. I really hope that we did not disturb Mr. Sawyer the other night when we were waltzing in my kitchen after dancing in Steeltopia. There isn't much room for dancing in my living quarters, so I kept bumping into things at first!

Life is fairly wonderful at present even without my magick. Now if we can just get this trial scheduled...
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If I must live as a non-magickal being for who-knows-how-long, I have decided that I should make myself useful. To that end, I have worked hard to stock my kitchen. There are now dishes, mixing bowls, pots, pans, utensils, spices, canned goods, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit, a kettle, a pitcher, pot holders, towels, and a big, covered basket. The only thing that I forgot to get was a cookbook, though I'm not sure that even a cookbook could help me at this point.

Perhaps there is someone in Steelhead who could come over to give me lessons? Mr. Sawyer has done a marvelous job with the meals, but the poor man has other duties and I feel rather bad for making him cook for me as well. Of course, making him eat -my- non-magickal cooking might be a fate worse than death, so perhaps my attempt at kindness is more cruel than kind...

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It is strange how one can become accustomed to a routine. I will place most of the blame upon my limited strength and endurance, but part of it just might be melancholy. I've slept a lot since the Incident, partially to speed healing and partially to escape from this mundane life in general. That is even more true as I continue to deceive my friends and my feelings of guilt grow.

I woke from my afternoon nap upon the sofa to the sounds of Mr. Sawyer splitting firewood outside the barn. Strangely, that noise brought me a quiet sense of contented pleasure. I was not alone on my farm. I _am_ not alone on my farm. That thought was enough to bring tears to my eyes and then I almost wept in earnest when I realized how pitiful it is to be so grateful to have him here. What kind of wretched creature am I?

Worse yet, when I moved to the window to look down at the figure who was then quietly stacking the newly split wood, I felt an unexpected pang of yearning for him to be someone else. Someone whose lab I can almost glimpse from my window.

And that's when I burst into tears anew.
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