The Clan McCrea will embrace you, despite your flaws. We will call you brother, sister, cousin, kin.
All hail Mad Marcus McCrea, First of the McCreas, Last of the great ones, renowned snappy dresser.
His eldest niece, Mad Malice McCrea, operates as his second, sends a lot of faction mails, is very proud of her claws these days, and made this wiki page. Can you dig, baby?
Second eldest niece Dimentia McCrea and first Sez Colonel, answers to none save Marcus and Malice. Even then she rarely comes when called. Like a cat, but more loyal.
The other sez Sez colonels of the Clan include Hinton McCrea, Simmura McCrea, and Voiderio Tshin-Fai McCrea. All are reasonably friendly, mostly helpful, (Killing you and giving you good advice aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.) and probably deadly if provoked. You have been warned.
Joining/Contacting the Clan
Clan McCrea is currently accepting all applicants who fall short of angelhood and seek a family to accept them for who they are/what they've become. Kilt will be provided upon entry, if you want and if we have any available.
Thanks to Simmura McCrea, we now have a functional forum, located hither:
Can you dig it? CAN you DIG it? CAN YOU DIG IT?!
Partially Fabricated News
Mad Marcus McCrea: Missing. Again. Yes, that's right gentle readers, he's disappeared on us once again. But this time he didn't leave without a word, he left with a promise he'd check up on us when he could. Patience is a virtue.
Clan McCrea: Still here, Still Scottish, Still Barking Mad.
Created on November 7th, 2007, Clan McCrea has been in the nexus for longer than any of the original handful of McCreas could've imagined. People come, people go. Factions appear, burn brightly, and fade into memory, leaving only the standards of forgotten factions in the strongholds of those who ended them to tell their sad tale. But Clan McCrea remains.
Rum! Still not a valid cure for cancer.
McCrea scientists have, in the past, found absolutely NO evidence that rum is in any way a cure for cancer. However, a recent intensive study has been conducted, by our "Top Men" in light of slightly less recently uncovered data. After much deliberation, they still found no evidence suggesting that rum of any kind in any form can cure Cancer of any type/form. This was of course somewhat difficult to discern, as it is possible to get drunk enough to THINK you don't have cancer, but you still do. Bummer, we know.
Origins of the Clan
The origins of Clan McCrea are steeped in mystery, lies, and it is generally agreed, a great deal of Laphroaig. Presumably originating somewhere in Scotland, clan lore claims we lived by the sea, and were thereby suddenly and inevitably attacked by vikings. They came, they saw, they got a bit mixed up and burned before they pillaged raped or looted, and eventually got angry with themselves and sailed off.
Upon realizing what had happened, the remaining McCreas, perhaps having suffered head trauma, decided to build a boat, grab some clubs, get reeling drunk, and sail after the sodding bastards. They'd never see it coming!
Unfortunately, being no mariners even when sober, upon setting sail they quickly became irrevocably lost. The McCreas, it is claimed, spent the next several hundred years of history sailing about, trying to find Scotland. It is unclear how they managed to do this exactly, as history states that their boat was smallish, and needed to be bailed out constantly. If lore holds true, McCreas visited South America, Africa, Japan, and New Jersey, among other places.
It is here that the history of Clan McCrea becomes rather unbelievable, as it is usually about this time that Uncle Marcus is starting to feel the effects of the aforementioned intoxicants. He claims, most of the time, that he was born at sea, about the same time, roughly, that Cortez was exploring about in South America. Having already done that, the McCreas were at the time cavorting about the Mediterranean area.
Marcus claims that while they sailed around in plain sight, people generally ignored the existance of a number of kilt wearing individuals in a very leaky boat yelling at them. It was therefore very difficult to find proper directions, and eventually they ended up sailing back out of the Mediterranean sea. Having finally been given directions, albeit bad directions, by a passing pirate, they sailed south, away from Scotland. This accounts for the McCreas instinctual dislike of pirates to this very day.
Somewhere along the way, they were attacked by some sort of big ugly sea monster. Accounts vary wildly as to what the creature looked like. Malice claims it was huge, had lots of teeth, and even more tentacles. Marcus tends to downplay the teeth a bit, and point out that Malice was very young at the time. One thing is agreed upon. Marcus punched it. Right in the face. And down it went. Listing.
Sailing steadily south, they eventually hit Antarctica, and decided, "What the hell, we might as well make a go of things." Several hundred years later, they realized that there were only so many ways one could prepare ice to make it fit for McCrea consumption, and so they left.
All of this is to be called into question as if it were true, Marcus and Malice would both be several hundred years old, at least.
In the early nineteen fifties, the McCreas arrived once again in North America, to find that it now had a great deal of people on it. They hit a bar and began regaling it's occupants with stories about their trip from Antarctica, and the sea monster that Marcus punched in the face, and so on and so forth. They were, every last one, rounded up within 48 hours on various criminal charges. Upon undergoing observation, all were all deemed neat things like mentally unstable, criminally insane, unfit for human consumption, and lots of other five dollar words. They were subsequently assigned to appropriate mental health care facilities/maximum security prisons/witness protection programs. Some were put to death, but, to use a turn of phrase that is popular amongst the McCreas, it probably didn't stick.
Arrival in Valhalla
Plucked from the mental asylum where most of her family resided, Mad Malice suddenly and inexplicably found herself in Valhalla. In her initial frustration at finding herself ripped from the dimension in which her family took residence, she killed many people. Upon returning to consciousness, Malice mourned their passing, for a little while, before her sadness turned into self pity. She had grown claws, her body, by the power of the nexus, twisting to match her soul.
In her misery, she began to miss her family. In her grief, she called through her blood, striking it to ring in tune with theirs. She called to them, and they, one by one, have come, from the asylums, from the prisons, and from lonely places where the unloved are left to die. Some have the name by right of blood. Others, by right of passing.
1. To live, thrive, and survive, that whole thing. We're all hopelessly addicted to breathing. Just can't quit. We've tried all the usual things, including the One Step (off a cliff) Program. Sometimes it works for a while, y'know, but it's so hard to kick the breathing habit.
2. To assist the factions of the Forgotten Union in any way we are capable of. Should they require the assistance of crazed drunken "Scottish" people.
For Clan McCrea, Evil is a matter of convenience.
If you do NOT happen to be in a safe house, or a stronghold, and we happen to find you.... We can't be responsible for what happens. This is the golden rule.
Raiding is of course a different story. Clan McCrea typically raids in celebration, or because we're really hungry. (See below)
It's a means to an end, you understand. All's fair in love, war, and Valhalla.
Like the vikings of old, we shall fight endlessly here.
Wings, be they feathered or leathery, achieve the same thing.
Horns and Halos are marks of battle, saying that we fought. We were there. And our many scars show that yes, we did bleed.
Our presence, well that shows our tenacity.
Furthermore, some McCreas look upon random passersby as potential food sources. Especially if you have wings, a halo, or other angelic features, some of which are considered fine delicacies in McCrea society. They take the concept of Angel hair pasta rather literally, for instance. If a McCrea looks at you hungrily, this is probably bad for you. It is under debate as to whether running or standing still is the better course of action, if one finds oneself in such a situation unable to defend one's self. Most will tell you to run, but most McCreas will tell you standing still is by far the preferable option.
* Incidentally, if you DO understand, and your morality has a minus sign in front of it, have you considered joining Clan McCrea?
Clan McCrea allies itself with those belonging to the Forgotten Union. Union members are thereby exempt from the Golden Rule, and will remain unmolested. At least physically. Clan McCrea claims no responsibility for mental damage caused by or through the individual members of Clan McCrea.
"Ever since I grew these claws I can't get these damn brass knuckles off." -Mad Malice McCrea
"It's partially because I'm intoxicated and mostly because I don't have a damn clue." -Hinton McCrea
"It should be ugly. And functional!" - Mad Marcus McCrea
"Some children are told which end of the knife is the sharp end. Others figure it out on their own...." - Shanky Franky McCrea
"You can borrow my unholy army of unspeakable evil, but be sure to have them back by dawn or they turn back into snowmen." - Dimentia McCrea
"Beer is proof that god loves you, and wants you to be happy." -Benjamin Franklin*
*He's not a McCrea, but it's a cool quote.
It is unknown why the members of Clan McCrea wear kilts. Not all of them are Scottish, or Irish, or of any kilt wearing ethnicity whatsoever. And not all of them wear kilts. Why is this here again?
A touchy subject, to be sure. Some McCrea's vehemently adhere to a few 'lucky' numbers. Others disagree just as vehemently, and often more drunkenly. Perhaps the most commonly 'worshiped' number is forty. Negative forty, specifically. Upon hearing this actually spoken, most of the believers will chuckle viciously and get a glazed far-off look in their eyes. If you've spent any time with the McCrea's it's pretty easy to guess what they're thinking about. A sub-sect of this, admittedly, small portion of the clan revere a different number, as well. They call it the "Theoretical -42".
It is believed, in the words of one McCrea, to be "the understandable outcome of a deep insight into the methods, and thus madness, of morality as a whole. The ultimate 'query/response.' Consider (the Theoretical -42), the causal outcome of presenting a man, or a demon, or, hell, an angel even, a wall. Can they overcome this wall? Perhaps not. But they-"
At this point an altercation broke out between the speaker and a few other McCrea's. It had multiple points and counterpoints to it, but the primary few seemed to be over alcohol, the location of said alcohol, the rarity of said alcohol and what the correct terminology was for precisely how sharp Malice's claws actually were, with a corollary involving live testing on whomever was not helping search for aforementioned alcohol.
The speaker resumed, "... But (the being in question) would try none-the-less, would they not? Futile? Depends on your perspective. If you take one perspective it's very hard to disable your beliefs long enough to wrap your mind around the benefits of the opposite. Of course, altered perspectives are condoned by all McCrea's. We find that they tend to be the easiest, and thus most convenient, ways to learn. For a truly perspective-altering experience, could I... persuade you to join me in a drink?"
Very little else spoken was intelligible that night.
The McCrea Stronghold
Clan McCrea resides within an apartment building in the Forgotten City, Purgatory. If you want to find it, you will. The outside of the stronghold is unassuming, and seems typical of the strongholds of the Nexus. Sometimes there is graffiti on it, mostly by McCreas, but this is oftimes washed off in favor of a blank faced building.
The building itself is three stories tall. All windows and doors on the first floor have been bricked up, save for one door. All windows on the second and third floors have been boarded over with plywood and 2x4s. Strangely, the single remaining door is typically absent, unless an enterprising carpenter has happened by recently, allowing for a glimpse of a darkened interior.
Were one to walk into the building, one would immediately find the interior to be mostly gutted, making, for the most part, one very large room with a very high ceiling. In the center of this large room sits a dead man at a desk, looking very much like a clerk or receptionist, illuminated by his desk lamp. This will probably be Hinton McCrea. He will, save in regard to McCreas, be most displeased with your arrival, and with any luck a host of undead will see to you forthwith.
Assuming that Hinton is out, (he rarely is) and that no host of undead is available, you may well have time for your eyes to adjust. Once this has transpired, you would notice that portions of the rooms that line the outside of the building remain intact. Some have all four walls and doors, but most leave one wall open to the main room, to allow for voices to drift up to the occupant.
There is a functional kitchen on the first floor, nearly directly across from the entrance, and any McCreas currently in residence can probably be found on the ground floor. There are no stairs leading to what is left of the upper rooms, which are not so much rooms in and of themselves as very large shelves lining the outer walls. These shelf-rooms provide some amount of privacy to any McCrea clever or powerful enough to get up to one and claim it.
The McCrea stronghold does boast a basement, which is used primarily for alchemical study, and will hopefully one day be retrofitted with a forge and other amenities.
There is no spoon.
The Man in the Corner
Tipple: 1. Noun. A beverage, typically alcoholic in nature, also typically drawn from a keg. Usage: "My favorite tipples include Rum and Whisky." 2. Verb. Drinking moderately but regularly. Usage: "We tippled the Rum, and clawed at the shepherd a bit."
As a rule, the drinks of choice amongst Clan McCrea include Laphroaig and Whaler's Rum. Specifically Whaler's Vanille, but any kind will do. The first is due to fine Scottish Tradition. The second is due to a brief stint in the Hawaiian islands, during which the McCreas gained an appreciation for rum, and dugout canoes. Never could make the canoes. Put an axe in the hands of a McCrea and we tend to be unable to stop until we've hacked clean through something with it. But we appreciate them. They make a fine gift, and an even better container for one of the aforementioned tipples. If you're considering joining Clan McCrea, and you're of a legal drinkin' age, consider trying Laphroaig, or Whaler's Rum.
Mind you, Laphroaig tastes like, quote, "Seaweed and Haggis aged in a bagpipe." Whaler's rum is recommended for those unused to whisky of fine quality.
Page Under Destruction
This page is constantly under destruction, discombobulation, recombobulation, and overall I mess with it a lot, too. -Malice
Caution: The owner of this page states that it may or may not be factual and/or unbiased, and so should not be considered 'Neutral Point of View'. As such, only the creator of this page - or others, given permission - may edit it.