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Message: <blockquote data-quote="anonystu" data-source="post: 793459" data-attributes="member: 10897">( ic | <a href="http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=45362" target="_blank">ooc</a> | <a href="http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=44872" target="_blank">characters</a> | <a href="http://enworld.cyberstreet.com/showthread.php?s=&threadid=44165" target="_blank">recruitment</a> ) i will stopi will stop at nothingsay the right thingswhen electioneeringi trust i can rely on your vote  -- thom yorkeThe life of a journalist: the thrill of chasing the story, the craft of writing the perfect sentence, the fulfillment from being able to touch and influence people's lives.An entire force of heavily armed guards determined to see you dead, a job in which you're expect to commit crimes with a constancy to justify that city guard, and editors who are more likely to stick a knife in your back then appreciate your work.They didn't really mention that in the perks when you signed up for The Daily Float, but they didn't really mention election season either. You've been on call for the last week now, working all seven days of the week, at day and night, on the whim of your editor. You're not allowed to split apart from the team for more than a hour on personal business, and with the last week coming up, it's only likely to get worse. Being the third-string metro journalists, behind stars like Helena Yossini, it means you only get the crap reports.You find yourself on the floating rock in a room in the You Sleep Well Because The Ruling Party Watches Over You Inn, near the boundary between the current allocation of territory between the Ruling Party Blue mages, and the Opposition Party Red mages. Today, in a district right across the border, your story is simple, a little smash and question mission, to interview, willing or unwilling, Alyssa Carmichael, wife of Arthur Carmichael, current Opposition Party leader of the 19th District, and also candidate for city-wide mayor, a position that has no real responsibilities, but prestige and clout to make up for it.But, that's to happen later: it's just sunrise, and the inn, rowdy, loud, and overflowing with drunken magical effects and their even more drunk creators, is quiet. All is peaceful."Wake up you lousy scumsucking plague infested excuses for employees!"Till the shrill, shattering yell of your editor, or more precisely, the shrill yell reflected through the iron gate that is Justin's property. You've never seen your editor, although you're almost certain that he's a male gnome. He communicates with you through this gate to his undisclosed location, offering criticisms, encouragement (ha!), and the more than occasional threats on your life. In exchange, you send him articles, by throwing them through the gate. He claims that he's installed a mechanical guillotine on the other end of his gate to cut off anything live that comes through: you've never tested.He gave you a few hours off last night after successfully finding two low-ranking councilmen, their wives, and the spirits of several dead party ancestors in a compromising position, and seemed almost happy. All of that happiness seems to be long gone."I swear, if you don't wake up this minute, I'm going to personally get the city guard to cut you to ribbons, resurrect each part of you, and then feed you alive to my bugbear one slice at a time."The light is just starting to creep in the window.It's going to be a long day.</blockquote>

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