Is there any organized human resistance to the Elvish domination in Ireland? Tír na n’Óg human rebels? Ive been scouring the books and I have seen very little about a human resistance to the Tír na n’Óg government.

Check shadows of europe, I think that has some info on them.

but I think one was okay with metas (even Elves) joining, and were a bit more political and a bit less metaracial about it.

The only one pissed at the elves are the 'old school' IRA.

...when Ireland split from the U.K.

... and the Catholics.


You do know that Ireland proper is not part of the UK, yes?

As for the fact that Ireland proper is not part of the U.K. . . . what can I say? The world of Shadowrun and the world of our own split histories a while ago. In Shadowrun (IIRC), all the islands banded together for a time after UGE, goblinazation, and VITAS knocked the stuffing out of them. Then they split up again.

I'm thinking I should quit posting on dumpshock. Whenever I post something, I oversimplify, and everyone picks apart what I said. Do you really want to get me all long-winded just to cover my own posterior?

Yes, the Catholics hate the elves of the Tir, but not BECAUSE they are elves, it is because of their religion, same reason they hate the human IRA. I decided not to include them because it is not a resistance to the Elves PER SE, but a resistance to a religion. I know that the Catholics have elves in their ranks too.

I'm thinking I should quit posting on dumpshock. Whenever I post something, I oversimplify, and everyone picks apart what I said. Do you really want to get me all long-winded just to cover my own posterior?

So since Tír na Nóg was founded by immortal elves with human helpers (i think: correct me if i'm wrong) how exactly did they change the religion of the country, and to what? I thought the Tír was still a catholic nation in the 6th world.
And i'm really wondering how the people here would have dealt with UGE. The country isnt that populated in the first place, we only have ~4million in the republic even now, plus the north. Plus although people here dont like to admit it, most are prejudiced or racist in some way. We simply havent had to deal with foreign immigrants in any quantity until recently, and in SR a lot of people were suddenly being born dwarfs/elves/undergoing goblinisation and i'm not sure how people would have reacted (probably not very well...)
And is there any evidence for travelers still existing in SR, or how they have adapted to the 6th world?

So since Tír na Nóg was founded by immortal elves with human helpers (i think: correct me if i'm wrong) how exactly did they change the religion of the country, and to what? I thought the Tír was still a catholic nation in the 6th world.

The Path of the Wheel (or something like that). Mentioned briefly in Street Magic, more detail in SR3. Basically it's elvish superiority paganism (or something like that, remembering off the top of the head). A majority of the normal people are still Catholic, but it's suppressed (since the above is the state religion, for intents and purposes).

... I bet if you took Guinness, Bushmill, Tullamore, and Jameson, you would actually have a pretty powerful AA corporation. ... I wonder who owns Jack Daniels, Johny Walker, and Jim Bean (among others). Booze is big business, I bet they wouldn't let themselves get bought out by a megacorp without a fight (is it better to be owned by a all encompassing megacorp, or form your own corporation with your "competors?").

Is there any organized human resistance to the Elvish domination in Ireland? Tír na n'Óg human rebels? Ive been scouring the books and I have seen very little about a human resistance to the Tír na n'Óg government.

Seriously if you go back to the old Tir Na' Nog sourcebook it seemed pretty clear that the designer was trying to make the Emerald Isle like it was in the worst of the Troubles with violent radicals in Ulster using terrorist tactics to oppose the ruling class and receiving support from the ex-pat Fenians in Boston.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...

Rory took his time lacing up his boots. They were shiny black leather, bought two years ago from a Matrix-order catalog that claimed they were the same ones the Sioux Wildcats wore. He didn't know or care if it was true, what counted was that they were light enough to run in, thick-soled enough to sneak in, and tough enough to barely show the wear and tear he'd put them through in near-on thirty months of dodging patrols, other para's, and plain old cops. He'd run on rooftops in them, kicked men's teeth out with them, stomped in a skull or two, and crushed glass underfoot as he did his damnedest to dodge bullets. They were good boots. They deserved to be tied right. It was raining -- Christ, when wasn't it raining in Belfast -- and he didn't want wet feet, did he?

Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done...

He was careful to tuck his cargo pants into the tops of the boots, just right. They were drab grey things, extra loose and baggy, with pockets that would soon be weighed down by more than the handful of slap patches he always kept on him. He bloused the ankles. He'd read something, once, about how only the best of the best over in one of the US's militaries got to do that, the ankle blousing. He wasn't legally a soldier, despite them calling themselves the Irish Republican Army, but he was the best of the best. He'd been at the game too long, it had been running too fast, for him to be anything else. In the terrorism race, second best died. Once he'd discovered he was an Adept, of course, he'd grabbed that fact by the neck and never let go. It was almost his only edge, but it kept him in first.

...on Earth, as it is in Heaven.

The vest strapped into place over his dark t-shirt, covering up some logos and wrapping his torso in a comfortably tight cocoon that would stop most anything up to a .45 round. The trauma plates made it heavier, but Rory knew he'd need them. He fumbled for a few seconds with the straps to his shoulder rig, having forgotten to adjust it for his armored bulk ahead of time; then a pair of Brownings were slid into holsters, one under each arm. Bloody right, Brownings; good enough for the old SAS boys, good enough for him. Filled magazines and loose, leftover, rounds started going into cargo pocket pants, making him thankfull for the belt he'd been careful to tighten extra securely.

They were oily things, caseless rounds, that left his hands slick and smelling of death-to-come, but you could never have too many of them.

Give us this day our daily bread.

The slender young elf let out a sigh, turning to the table next to him. The C-6 was already in place, a block of it that would fill a shoebox, thumped unceremoniously into the bottom of this plasti-nylon bookbag. He knew it was safe. He knew how stable it was. He knew that without the pencil inserted -- pencils kept in ziplock baggies on the external pockets of the backpack -- he could manhandle it as much as he wanted; swing the bag like a club, let it slap loose at the small of his back as he ran, drop it, throw it, hit someone in the face with a brick of it, even burn it, if he had to.

He knew that, on a rational level, but all the same, he sometimes thought he could feel the danger of it. The potential. The tension. The energy, waiting to be released. It scared him, that so much death could fit into so small a backpack. It scared him more that so much death could come from him. He zipped the bag shut, adjusted the shoulder strap, hefted it, once, for balance.

Forgive us our trespasses...

They'd arrested Stephen McManus. They had him, and they were torturing him right now, and Rory and everyone Rory knew was going to be in trouble. They'd caught him, little Stevie McManus, the Tir nA nOg bastards had hit him with some spell that kept him from fighting or running or ducking or even putting his gun to his own head, then just scooped him into a van easy as you please. That was their problem, Rory's and his IRA friends. Magic. It was what the Tir had and what the IRA needed. Rory was the closest thing they had. He wasn't their leader, not by a long shot, but he was their best. He had to stop Stephen from talking. He knew where they'd taken his friend. He knew he had to quiet him. He knew what had to be done, and that he was the only one that could do it.

...as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Rory hated his pointed elven ears, and his sharp features, and his quickness, and his God-damed cat's eyes. He wished he could be rid of them. He wished he didn't need them so.

They didn't call his home Ireland any more. People with faces and ears and eyes like his had taken it over, killed or kicked out anyone who disagreed too loudly, renamed it after thousands of years of being glorious Eire. It had happened before, to this green island. God knows, it had happened before. And Rory, and those like him, would do what had been done in those past ages, those decades or centuries or generations ago. They were Irish. They were of Ulster. They were fighters. They'd fight.

Rory shrugged into his jacket, rolling his shoulders a few times, bending and straightening experimentally. He'd worn the armored jacket before, of course, and the vest, and the shoulder rig. But never all three at once. He felt alright, though. He felt fast. Loose. Ready. Eager. The jacket didn't slow him down, the vest, the pistol harness. Ireland, and his belief in it, kept him quick and smooth. Hatred kept his movements fluid.

And lead us not into temptation...

They'd taken her from him, those years ago. Same as they'd just taken Stephen. He hadn't cared one way or the other what name was on the maps of his country, before her loss. He hadn't minded his elven ears, his night sight, his grace and fluidity. He hadn't hated, really hated, until he'd seen her dead.

He'd loved her and she'd painted slogans they didn't like and they'd killed her. Just like that.

So he'd found hatred, and found a gun, and found his Magic, and found his will to use it. He'd gone to Libya and trained with the men that had trained generations of angry young terrorists. He'd learned to harness his power, his will to kill, his anger and his youth. He'd been taught how to do the things he was about to do. He'd come home, then, not an angry boy but a focused man. Beneath his sunburn and the new hardness in his eyes was a core of rage and concentration in equal parts, and Rory honestly didn't know how many men he'd killed in the years since. He didn't count. He knew Seamus, and Michael, and the others did. He knew they whispered about him, knew why they bought him drinks and stepped out of his way and asked him to do the things they couldn't or wouldn't -- but he didn't count. God did.

...but deliver us from evil.

He pulled the mask out of his jacket pocket, tugged it onto the top of his head, flatrolled it just so; it didn't look bad. Pants like his were common. The battered old bomber jacket hid its trauma plates well and could belong to anyone. The vest didn't show as anything more than some undescribable black top. The boots were comfortable, the hat to keep off the chill, the bag could hold anything, slung as it would be over one shoulder. He was just another factory or dock worker going home. He could be anyone.

He gritted his teeth and readjusted his hat; shifted it, tugged and shoved a bit, making sure his ears showed. Being an elf would make the cops more likely to leave him alone as he walked to where Seamus had left the car. In the back seat of the car was a Kalishnikov and several full magazines. In the glove box was an old paper map with instructions drawn on it, next to a small bottle of Bushmill's and a credstick for when the job was done. He had to make it to that car on foot, and drive the twenty minutes to the Seventeeth Street police station.

Showing off his ears would make the cops leave him alone. Dammit.

For thine is the Kingdom...

He looked himself over, one last time, in the cracked mirror that was bolted to the inside of his flat's door. He looked fine. He looked casual, and comfortable, and warm against the rain that would turn to snow by morning. You couldn't see the guns, or the ammunition, or the bomb that was in his knapsack. You couldn't see the blood on his hands, or the death in his sparkling blue eyes. He flashed a smile, hoping for a moment to see the boy she'd known while she lived.

...and the Power...

A killer looked back at him from the mirror. The killer smiled. It was elf-perfect and charming, white toothed and flawless... but feral, all the same. The smile didn't reach his eyes. They didn't sparkle quite right, any more. They burned with something, some energy from inside him, but that wasn't the same. He wondered what she'd say, today, if he'd met her in a Philosophy 101 class at Trinity, asked her for coffee, smiled at her like this, had this bag over his shoulder.

...and the Glory. Forever and ever.

The killer stopped smiling. The killer knew the answer. The killer knew he wouldn't go to Trinity College ever again, and would do his best to drink and kill and burn away the memories of those philosophy classes and the sunday school lessons and the prayers and the love and the family. The killer knew he didn't deserve to think about her smile ever again, or the nights they'd had, or the shared hangovers the next day, and the laughter, and the doing it all over again. The killer knew where the car was, and the route he'd take to get to it, and the route he'd take to get to the station. He knew the window closest to the interrogation cells, knew he'd creep up to it and snap a thirty second pencil into the absurdly large block of C-6. He knew he'd empty a magazine through it, and then a second, and then a third, and then while everyone was ducking and cursing and praying and bleeding, he'd run. He'd run back to the car, and watch the explosion that killed his friend Stephen in the rear view mirrors as he sped away, and then he'd drink the Bushmill's and use the credstick to buy more, and he'd drink until he forgot the screams and the smell of gunpowder and the secrets Stephen would never get the chance to share.

Amen.

Another little piece of Rory Caolain died as he walked out into the night, collar turned up against the cold rain, and tugged the door to his flat shut right behind him. He knew she wouldn't forgive him for the things he was doing, the things he'd done. He knew she was a painter of slogans, a debate student, a talker and a lover and a passionate believer... but not a killer.

He thought she'd be afraid of him, and feel sad for what he'd become. He knew he was.