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...It is a dark, stormy night...

...And there's a knock at your door. It's strange that a knock can sound both timid and yet also be gobsmackingly loud; can be seemingly hesitant yet also communicate the knocker barely containing the urge to kick the door down and burst in anyway. Wondering who the hell is knocking at god-knows-what hour of a dark, stormy night and why they don't seem to understand the word 'cliche', you wrap your dressing gown around you against the chill and pad barefoot downstairs to deal with the, presumably, stranded idiot whose car has broken down just along the road.

As you somewhat testily undo the locks and chain and swing open the door, a slim, black-clad figure looms in the doorway, casting a dark shadow into the hall as lightning cracks behind him. The awkward shadows throw his features into sharp relief as he thrusts out a hand. Another crack of lightning nearly blinds you, and you shrink back as the figure looms forward, lunging at you with...

...a mug? A blue-mottled, slightly chipped, tannin stained, enamelled tin mug?


You pass out, gratefully.

When you awake, you find someone has placed a pillow under your head, and a blanket over you, and placed you in the recovery position. A rather large grey-white wolf is lying on your couch, watching you through cool, unfazed, grey-green eyes, hind legs tucked underneath itself. A pair of boots and a pile of clothes - kilt, shirt and jacket - lie crumpled on the floor directly in front of it, and a large femur bone, picked entirely clean of meat and sinew, rests on top of the clothes.

You pass out again.

Arriving somewhat circuitously back at consciousness, some undefined time later, the wolf is gone. A man sits where previously the lupine sat, cross-legged, pulling his dark tartan kilt down over his knees, because nobody needs to see that when they're just coming round. A battered blue enamel mug sits on the coffee table next to him, full of sugar. Two mugs of fresh, steaming Lapsang Souchong tea sit on the table as well, smelling of smoke and hope and confusion. The man slides one your way, with a very serious expression.

"Welcome back to Surreality" he intones. "If I can just see your Existence Pass and Life-Chip, then we can conclude this business and I'll be on my way." You stare back at him, boggling groggily, comprehension and beginning to stammer an excuse, when he raises a hand to cut you off, with a wry grin creeping across the slightly-craggy-but-not-yet-aged visage and a twinkle in the grey-green eyes. "Calm down, I'm joking. Did your mummy never warn you not to open the door to strange men?"

You get the feeling that even if she had, she wouldn't necessarily have counted on them being this strange. Then you notice the GERM logo on the collar around his neck. Ah. That might explain it...


SinkOrSwim - or SoS, or just Sink - was drafted to the island sometime in Season 1, around the time of the Consequences. He's flitted between various personae, from a naked hermit, a jobsworth Elf, a Military Surgeon, a Hardboiled Detective, but mainly he's just been a werewolf. The Network, in its everlasting quest for ratings, decided to dub the Wolf part in Season 1, making him appear to be a sarcastic, wisecracking cynic in the mould of certain comedians of bygone eras. They dropped this voiceover, along with its associated canned laughter, with the change of provider and the launch of Season 2, only to find certain habits had stuck and the Man had essentially become a caricature of someone else's portrayal of himself.

Sink has been a lot of things to a lot of people over the years: friend, companion, accomplice, accessory, punching bag, occasional romantic interest, security, matrimonial celebrant, and even lover once or twice. He's tried not to be an enemy, but knows it happens every now and again. He's invariably polite and friendly, ready with a cup of tea or a glass of whiskey, happy to chat and offer sympathy. An early habit of sitting in the corner of the Common Grounds singing and playing guitar has waned in the past few years, but he's still a fan of finding a quiet place to sit and get quietly on with a tune.

Sink joined the CIA when he first arrived, but after chance encounters with other clans he was swiftly co-opted into CDAG under the leadership of a certain doddery old git, then after the re-launch became a co-leader of GERM alongside Bernard, Merlin and Herbal Squidge. Despite threatening to leave the Clan once for totally stupid reasons, and actually leaving a second time for only slightly less stupid reasons, he has ended up back in the fold and intends to stay there until somebody kicks his carcass out. Where else could a well-trained lycanthrope be considered Clan Leader and Clan Pet at the same time?

Sink is the owner of The Swamp, his ramshackle fortress of relative solitude down on the south coast of the island. He formerly owned The Church (just outside of Improbable Central) and another, unrecorded dwelling near AceHigh, both of which were razed during the Reset. He's the host of the occasional Beltaine celebration, lousy with anything approaching technology, handy with a still, not too bad in the kitchen, and an occasional enthusiastic facilitator of inebriation. Organised a party, once. Nothing much happened.

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sinkorswim.txt · Last modified: 2017/05/28 03:35 (external edit)