Gyrfalcon

Gyrfalcon glanced at the undead, then at Timothy and Elena, their faces already taking on the grim casts of those who saw their deaths ahead but knew that their duty was more important. Gyrfalcon clasped Timothy's shoulder and nodded to Elena. "Don't be heroes, you two. These undead aren't all that fast- all I need is a head start. If you can skirmish until the first cross corridor or whatever is in there, I'm sure you two can lose the undead inside. They'll never catch up with me. Timothy smiled faintly. "Of course Gyr. Now get going, will you?" Gyrfalcon shook his head and let out his breath slowly. "May the peace of the gods be with you both." He said as a final benediction before running into the Temple, his katana clutched in his hands. Behind him, he heard Elena shout a battle cry and the meaty thunk of Timothy's sword shearing undead flesh. The half-elf ran on. At the first intersection, Gyrfalcon slowed for a moment before continuing straight ahead. While this Temple had obviously been built in honor of the Pool of Eternal Reflection, it was also designed for defense. Proof of this was found a hundred feet ahead, a zombie felled by an acid trap, from the looks of the remains. Gyrfalcon's lips thinned. The charismatic man and the anti-paladin had obviously come this way. Gyrfalcon had hoped that the only ones ahead of him were his wayward companions, but this was obviously not so. Gyrfalcon charged ahead, leaping over the zombie's remains and raced down the corridors ahead. Every moment now counted. He had to overtake the church burners or reach the Pool ahead of them. Despite Elena's warnings, Gyrfalcon didn't want to trust to the possibility that his enemies had not found out a way to avoid the death that followed eternal wisdom. Ahead, the corridor split into three paths. Gyrfalcon hesitated, but something warned him from taking the obvious path down the center. Instead, he raced down the left-hand path. Moments later, his senses screamed a warning to him. The half-elf felt something tug against his leg, and he threw himself into a twisting dive, feeling the rush of the wind as darts swept abovehim at chest level, a few imbedding themselves in his cloak and one bouncing against his shoulder, but none penetrating. lying on his back, Gyrfalcon recovered one of the darts and inspected it. As he suspected, a dried black substance stained the tip of the dart- no doubt that it once had been a virulent poison, but now, it was nothing but a black stain. The half-elf doubted he wanted even the dried version of the poison in his body, however. Rolling over, Gyrfalcon crawled forward, not surprised to find another tripwire several feet down the corridor to deal with anyone who managed to avoid death in the first trap by luck or by guile. After a few moments, Gyrfalcon determined that this trap repeated the same trap as the one before. Gyrfalcon shook his head at the trap designer's lack of cunning- if the first attempt didn't work, why would more of the same? The half-elf stepped over the trip wire and continued cautiously down the corridor. However, no other trip wires presented themselves, and all of the stones seemed firm under his cautious step. Reaching the end of the corridor, Gyrfalcon was presented with a simple doorway. There was a simple lock on the doorway, but even after several minutes, the half-elf couldn't detect any sort of trap. He extracted a probe from the top of his boot and used it to quickly unlock the door. Replacing the probe, the half-elf walked through, and as he did so, felt the tingle as he breached a magic ward. With a mental curse, Gyrfalcon threw himself away from the doorway, even as the ceiling rumbled and collapsed, a massive block slamming down where the half-elf had been standing moments before. Leaping to his feet, he raced down the corridor, the ceiling collapsing in behind him. He reached a simple archway and dived through, and again felt himself break a ward. "Damn it!" The half-elf said as he rolled to his feet, ready to run again. But the room didn't seem to be in any danger of collapsing. The half-elf walked forward into the center of the large room and looked around. It was completely unfurnished and nearly unornamented, when compared to the rest of the Temple. Two statues, armored and armored as warriors, one each from the Vishari and S'den clans flanked the doorway across the chamber from the half-elf. The walls were nearly unornamented, worked with only simple designs. Gyrfalcon shook his head, a bit surprised that death wasn't raining down all around him, but more then willing to accept the momentary respite. Stepped forward, he started to walk between the two statues when their arms moved, crossing swords in front of the startled half-elf. In a grating, rumbling voice, one of the statues demanded something in a language that was beyond the half-elf's experience. "I don't suppose you'll believe me if I say that I'm allowed through, will you?" Gyrfalcon said dryly. The two statues slowly rose, shields rising into position and swords held ready. "I thought not." Gyrfalcon said, retreating away from the statues as they stepped forward. "You know..." he said, darting forward to hack at one statue before having to dive back as the sword came across, much faster then he had expected. "It's things like you that made me retire from adventuring once!" The statues didn't seem to care that he had retired before, but only that he was here now. With implacable steps, they advanced, swords slashing whenever the half-elf seemed to be in range. Gyrfalcon was forced to give ground steadily against the golems' awesome strength, darting in and out as he could to hack at the statues, his enchanted blade cutting gouges in their shields where a normal blade would have only created sparks, but it wasn't doing anything to stop the golems. Gyrfalcon knew he was running out of room, and fought as hard as he could to slow the golems' advance, but he was forced back against the wall. The two swords thrust ahead, and the half-elf spun away, avoiding the blows by a hair's breadth. Turning with a vicious sweep, he managed to cut through one golem's leg and nicked the other golem's arm. The first golem went down with a resounding crash that shook the chamber, and failed to move. "Heh, I see that 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' rule holds true." Gyrfalcon said, ducking a vicious backhand slash as the second golem freed its sword from the wall. Darting forward, Gyrfalcon put his sword through its kneecap and heaved on the hilt, widening the crack. Despite his efforts, the leg refused to break, and he was forced back as the golem bashed him with its shield, sending the half-elf flying across the room. Gyrfalcon unsteadily rose to his feet in time to watch the golem lurch towards him, and he heard a grinding crack as the golem's weakened left leg gave way. He covered his ears as the statue toppled forward and smashed into the floor, shaking the chamber with its fall. The half-elf shook his head to still the ringing in his ears from the shield bash and moved forward to reclaim his katana. Looking at the golems, he shook his head. "I hope I don't have to deal with too many more of those." The half-elf trotted from the chamber, remembering that he was in a race, and hoped as well that his competitors were experiencing as many troubles as he was.

Tengu - This is a japanese spirit. They tend to be swordmasters and resemble a cross between a man and a raven. The arms are feathered and I believe they can be used as wings in a pinch. Kitsune- Japanese fox spirit. There's a couple schools of thought on them, but a few I've seen suggest that kitsune can sprout wings. They're otherwise shapeshifters that can look like humans or foxes with multiple tails. I assume you don't want anything out of AD&D? *grins*

Heh, thanks Celes- I was going to suggest my much more limited set of French words. However, these ideas are for Gwaihir.

Gyrfalcon stepped through the doorway into a sparsely furnished stone room. Along one wall, there was a broad desk covered with papers. Along the other, bookcases piled high with books, the volumes almost spilling off the shelves. Directly across from him, double doors opened up onto a balcony. The sky outside was violent, swirling ripples of red and orange and yellow, clouds caught in the dying grasp of the setting sun. Standing on the balcony, looking at the dying sky, stood a man. As the man turned, Gyrfalcon recognized himself, as he had once been. The robes of an archmage, under which was the field plate of the Knight Marshal of New Muriska. But there was an addition to the breastplate, a strange jewel that reminded him of a sapphire, glinting with a strange, otherworldly light. With a sardonic bow, the vision of who he once was spoke. "I had hoped who I will become would be... grander... then you." Gyrfalcon smirked in response and bowed "I could say the same of you, my past." The magi raised an eyebrow "I am an Archmage, I lead New Muriska's legions. The alliance I belong to is one of the most respected in the world. How could anything be grander?" The ranger smiled in amusement. "I suppose in terms of physical accomplishments, it is indeed quite grand. But we never were concerned about spirituality back when, were we?" The magi snorted. "Spirituality is for fanatics and fools, or for those with enough geld to bribe the gods into favor." Gyrfalcon smiled sadly. "There are true gods who actually care about their world. Not on Terra, but on other worlds. You just haven't found them yet." The magi slashed the air with his hand. "Bah, that is nothing. But you evade the point of this matter. Gyrfalcon No'Dessu, former King of New Muriska, I offer you everything you lost. Your powers, your fame, your kingdom. Touch the gem, and you will regain them." Gyrfalcon shook his head. "No. That is the past, and what is done is done." He said resolutely. "How do you know that your power won't be needed? How do you know that without the power of an Archmage, you and your friends are doomed? Except... you'll survive. You always have. But you'll have the weight of their deaths on you." Gyrfalcon shook his head again stubbornly. "You're wrong, I-" The magi cut him off. "Dead because you didn't have the courage to accept this responsibility." The blow struck home, and Gyrfalcon hesitated. Was it his responsibility to accept the terrible burden of being an Archmage again? Would those powers held him and his companions? Gyrfalcon took a deep breath and slowly released it before looking at the illusion before him. "What has gone before cannot be brought back. The past cannot be rewritten. I am what I am now because of what I have sacrificed, in penance for what I have done. I cannot, and will not take what you offer me." The magi's eyes narrowed. "You are a fool." Gyrfalcon laughed. "No, I am not a fool. But you? You are but an illusion, designed to tempt me with what has been long resolved." His voice filled with scorn, Gyrfalcon spoke his last words to what he had been. "I am more then you ever will be, shadow." The magi rippled for a second, then disappeared. In his place, a door stood open. Gyrfalcon walked through, and looked at Usagi and Rondo. "Well, it looks like Oblinich is the only one we'll have to wait on." the half-elf said calmly.

In the silence following the reading of Annael's letter, and Ozymandias' statement that the small group would have to seek out Tamaranis to get a better sense of what was going on, Daryl brightly filled the silence. "Did he really click his heels?" Annael sighed, and Ozymandias shook his head, amazed anyone would miss the seriousness of the situation. "I mean, really, how many people actually click their heels. When you think about it-" Daryl continued. Gyrfalcon just chuckled. "Give it a rest Daryl." Daryl subsided with a sardonic smirk. "Only because you asked so nicely, Gyr." he responded, racking his practice armor. Ozymandias and Gyrfalcon followed his example, neatly replacing their equipment. "Excuse us, Annael, but I think we should go clean up a bit." Ozymandias said, and Gyrfalcon nodded. Daryl shrugged and grinned, starting for the shower room. "Why don't we meet up in the Banquet Hall?" Annael suggested. "That will be fine." Gyrfalcon said, bowing slightly to Annael. "We'll see you in a half-hour or so... well, however long it takes to dunk Daryl in a barrel of water." Daryl turned around and smirked. "First you'll have to catch me." ----- Thirty minutes later, the trio entered the Banquet Hall and joined Annael at her table, a somewhat damp Daryl still grumbling from having the contents of a barrel of water dumped on him by an exasperated Ozymandias. "I don't suppose anyone knows where Tamaranis spends the noon hours?" Gyrfalcon asked. "Normally I'd just suggest wandering up to his tower, but since he's not as night-bound as his vampiric kin, He might be awake and about right now." There was a discreet cough, and Gyrfalcon looked up. "Sir, this is for you." the messenger said, offering a letter. Gyrfalcon took it with a murmured thank you, then looked up. "Please stay for a moment." he said. He opened the letter, and read the signature first, finding that the writer was none other then Tamaranis. The half-elf looked up. "Tell me, is your master still in residence at his tower?" The man bowed slightly. "He was when I left, but the master, he could be anywhere at the moment." Gyrfalcon looked between Ozymandias, Annael, and Daryl, shrugging. He then looked at the servant. "Thank you, you may go." he said. The servant bowed once more and left. Gyrfalcon quickly scanned the letter and nodded. "It's the same letter as Annael has." Gyrfalcon said, tucking the letter away. Daryl looked curious "So, should we head off to Tamaranis's tower, or what?" Gyrfalcon shook his head. "Do we know he's still there?" He responded. Annael looked up from where she had been toying with her drink, listening quietly. "What about a divination spell?" Ozymandias snapped his fingers as her comment sparked a thought. "I can easily do that. Tamaranis has most likely warded himself against a direct divination spell, but I can always find out what his surroundings look like. If the divination shows a black stone tower, then Tamaranis is home. If it shows someplace else, we at least saved ourselves a trip." Daryl rose and quickly returned with a bowl full of clear water, which he set before Ozymandias. "Thank you, you're not that bad for a foul-tempered werething." Ozymandias said affably. "I didn't do anything to you for dumping that water on me!" Daryl protested. Ozymandias just shook his head. "If looks could have killed Daryl, I'd have been a smoldering corpse." Not waiting for a response, the mage closed his eyes and grew silent for a moment, calling his divination spells to mind and selecting one. Daryl grinned but stayed quietly as Ozymandias began to chant. The water in the bowl clouded, then cleared. No longer reflecting the ceiling, instead it showed an aerial view of a neat stone building, which extended into a large, well-tended garden, including many rooms that seemed to be composed of plant life. "Where is that?" Annael murmured, leaning forward to look. Daryl leaned forward as well. "That's Salinye's Hostel!" he exclaimed. Gyrfalcon raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment. "Lets see... near the forest to the north, about a mile from the stream?" Daryl nodded. "You pegged it." the werefox replied. Ozymandias let the spell lapse and looked at Gyrfalcon. "You've been there?" The half-elf shook his head in response. "Not really. My northern patrol takes me by it on the return leg of my journey, but I never stopped by." Ozymandias smiled and shook his head. Along with a few of the other ranger-types or otherwise restless folk at the Pen, Gyrfalcon patrolled the lands around the Pen, making sure no vermin, like orcs, were nearby and tending to any of the needs of the nearby communities. "How long of a journey is it?" Annael asked quietly. Gyrfalcon shrugged. "Patrolling, about two days. But then, I'm wandering through the woods and I'm not really moving in a straight line. If we took the road and some horses, we could be there by late afternoon if we pushed ourselves a bit." ----- Not twenty minutes later, they were mounted on three horses, Daryl preferring to take the shape of a fox and ride with Gyrfalcon, as he otherwise unnerved horses. Annael sighed and tucked her wings in as close as possible- she would have much preferred to fly, but she didn't want to risk her feathers until they had set a bit more. Besides, she'd rather not outpace her companions too much.

I think I'll take it upon myself to point out the little niggly details that should be attended to. Changes are in bold below. Overall, a good poem, I liked reading it. The only change I think should be made, Salinye has pointed out- change one of the lies to something else to avoid the repetition of the same word three times in a row.

What? I didn't say anything. I've just been sitting her, marking the time, whistling, twidling my thumbs and tapping a foot. Are you saying that distracts you? I wonder why you say that. Oh very well, I'll stop. *Daryl continues, however. Little ingrate.*

Happy Birthday Stick, Psimon. Glad you enjoyed your birthday so much Stick! May you have many more good ones.

*Gyrfalcon bows to Katzaniel* Thanks you, Katzaniel! You paint a much nicer picture of my actions then those whose posts I occasionally had to edit would paint. Anyway, despite you're thinking its not your best work, I'm honored and pleased by your poem Katzaniel. Thank you!

*laughs* This is something of a change from your more formal writings, Peredhil. An excellent twist on Madame Quixotic's prediction, though. *smirks* *laughs equally at Falcon's reaction*

*laughs* I can't count the number of people who have called me Gryfalcon... But to get Flakon2k1 takes someone typing way too quickly.

This story is set after the events of the Gaze of Eternity and speaks of how the Dreamer's soul came to Norrath. Innoruuk is the God of Hate on Norrath, one of the deities of the dark elves. The Dreamer's eyes flashed in irritation for a moment as he stood at the entrance to the Lost Paths. He had been close to discovering the path to this... Pool of Eternal Reflection. With it, he would have been able to turn and face his pursuers. Now, he was once again hunted. Again, his eyes flashed before he forced himself to calm and his eyes returned to a placid blue. He knew that the calm was a thin veneer over near-boundless rage. Baring his teeth in a silent challenge, the Dreamer stepped out onto the Lost Paths, and as he did so he sent his thoughts racing across the strands that connected him to his thralls and vassals, lingering over a snapped thread where a thrall had foolishly lost a fight with a demon. The angel was a minor one, however, and her loss was of little consequence... to anyone but herself, of course. The Dreamer shook his head, momentarily confused as to why he had thought or cared about what she would think of her own death. He did not pause to consider the thought, but instead cast it behind him as he strode, then raced through the Paths, feeling, knowing that his hunters had found his tracks, the flickering sense of his powers. The Dreamer knew that there were few places that would be beneficial to his turning and facing his hunters, many of the nearby crossroads and junctions held by the same powers who had set the hunters on him in the first place. Thwarted, the Dreamer turned down a side path, then another, then another, fleeing through the Void along paths that grew hazy and ill-defined, where a single misstep would leave the one who made that step floating in the Void, where only a few could ever find their way back to the Lost Paths again. The Dreamer finally reached an unclaimed crossroad and paused for a moment. With a nod, he sensed that his lead was slim, but enough. Enough for the moment. Working quickly, he summoned some of his more disposable minions and thralls, created a simulacrum of himself and infused it with a sense of his powers, then traveled onward once more. Before more then a few moments- measurements of time such as minutes being useless out here on the Lost Paths- had passed, the Dreamer could sense battle being joined at the crossroad behind him. He smiled faintly, knowing that his hunters would not be taking in by the simulacrum for more then a few moments, but they would still have to deal with the minions he had left behind, and that would take them time. The Dreamer knew that all he needed was time- time to find the proper place to fight this battle, time to summon his more powerful minions, time... There was never enough time. ----- Numilye's eyes snapped open, and for a moment she saw a strange form of double- it seemed she could see the physical reality of what was before her, and the lines of power that connected everyone- and everything- to one another. Frowning, she closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead before opening her eyes again. This time, everything was normal. She shook her head briskly and stood up from her cross-legged position, feeling that she had rested enough for the moment, and not wanting to drift off into sleep instead of meditation again. She rubbed her forehead, troubled by the already forgotten fragments of the dream she just had. A sense of power... perhaps it was a sending of Innoruuk, or perhaps merely a desire. "Finally ready to go?" a burly warrior grumbled as he likewise stood, clanking ponderously in his massive armor. Numilye turned cold eyes on him, and he swallowed silently. She dismissed his inquiry, not even bothering to try to recall his name. He existed for one reason only at the moment- to serve as a living shield for her, to give her room and time enough to call down Hate's blessing on the creatures they currently hunted. The warrior led the way as Numilye joined the stream of other adventurers exiting the cave, a safe resting spot on the edges of their cold hunting grounds. With the party was a human Ranger, another dark elf, he a necromancer, a goodly paladin she was developing a serious dislike for, what with his constant preaching about the importance of honor. Finally, there was another human, a rogue. The ranger pointed southeast. "They are that way." He said quietly. The rest nodded and set forth, their breath steaming in the chill, still air as they followed the ranger. He in turn followed the tracks that any of them could have followed in the frozen snow. The tracks of a giant patrol. Numilye smiled faintly as she considered the strangeness of being allied with the Coldain dwarves, no friends to any sort of elf, much less a dark elf, in their war against the Frost Giants. Several hours later, three patrols of the giants had been ambushed and disposed off, their toes harvested to prove to the dwarves that the party had indeed killed the giants. Numilye's spells had proven vital to the attacks, keeping the fighter and paladin alive through her healing magic until one or the other could strike the killing blow against a giant or the necromancer could do... something. Numilye had decided by that time that she distrusted him even more then the paladin, for some ill-defined reason. Perhaps it was because he was a dark elf. Just because she was of the same race didn't mean she would trust him any more then any other race. Indeed, she trusted her kin even less then the other races, for the dark elves always plotted, and Numilye suspected that sometimes it was simply for the joy of plotting. Numilye shook her head and turned towards the ranger. "Where next?" She said. He frowned and concentrated, looking around slowly. Before he could answer, a dozen brazen horns split the air, and the party stood shocked. Again, the horns sounded, and a voice boomed across the snow and ice. "The giants are attacking! Fall back to the castle!" The horns sounded again, and Numilye's eyes widened as memory rushed over her and consumed her. ----- The soundless horns shook the Forgotten Paths, belling out their call to the other hunters. The Dreamer ground his teeth in frustration as the horns thundered again. There had not been enough time. Despite his tricks and traps, his attempts to hide and distort his trail, the hunters had found him, far sooner then he would have liked. If there was any solace, it was only that the hunters were as far from a source of strength as he. The Dreamer stopped and turned, waiting as patiently as one of his temperament could, eyes flickering through colors as quickly as his emotions cycled. Irritation, rage, depression, and hatred, before hatred was consumed by rage again. The Dreamer forced himself back into a state of relative calmness, even as his mind ran down his long-stretching web of thralls and slaves, alliances and sources of might and he began to collect his energy. "So be it." he whispered silently as the hunters drew up in front of him, led by a great archon that the Dreamer knew well- Lythranis, one of the chief generals of the forces of Sarnael. "Dreamer! For your crimes again my lord master, Sarnael-" Lythranis began, but the Dreamer chopped a hand and cut him short. "Spare me your petty charges. Spare me your moralistic justification. Your master rages that I have flouted his will, and he wishes me dead, nothing more and nothing less." Lythranis gritted his teeth and spoke again "We give you this chance to surrender and face judgment!" "I will not surrender. Nor will you return to your master." The Dreamer said softly, seeing no point in continuing this charade. He made the first move, and the paths were suddenly filled with a host of demons. The angels responded, and within bare moments, angelic armies and goodly humans struggled against demons from the Nine Hells and devils from Hades, horrors from pits that even the Dreamer had been happy to depart from and spell-bound angels that joined angelic choirs only long enough to slay the dominions who led the singing angels, only to be cut to ribbons by their fellow angels. If the Dreamer had had the time to notice this, he would have been slightly amused at angel fighting angel. The Dreamer's struggles were with the hunters themselves, mystic and psychic attacks crisscrossed the struggling forms, and the unfortunate souls who were caught in the path of the attacks were utterly obliterated. The Dreamer focused on Lythranis's weaker companions, snuffing out their lives methodically, even as he staggered from the archon's mighty attacks and the barrage of lesser blows from the archon's minions. But even the mighty Dreamer couldn't ignore Lythranis with impunity. The Archon's magic tore at the Dreamer's connections to his minions, freeing them from his dominating will. On the front lines, several formations collapsed as creatures disappeared back to their planes of origin or turned on each other, fighting their former allies as much as their enemies. The enemies poured through the gaps, intent on the Dreamer. He reeled back, fighting desperately, bringing to bear all the power of a planeswalker to force back his enemies. However, the enemy stubbornly refused to yield ground, their attacks flaying at the Dreamer's soul and mind. The Dreamer was forced back, now only seeking to defend himself against the onslaught of his enemies. He was only moments from death when his eyes caught the swirling grayness of the void, and his eyes linger for a brief second. They were rippled by the forces directed against them, but quickly quieted again, nothing making an impression in the Void. Nothing making an impression... no ripples... no... tracks... The Dreamer was hit again, but without warning, he abandoned the fight, turned and threw himself into the Void. Spells flared past him, some striking, some not. The Dreamer threw himself forward, and as the last glimpse of the Lost Paths disappeared behind him, a spell hit him from behind, knocking him senseless, lost in the Void... ----- Numilye shook her head, then looked straight ahead, at a giant's leg. Oops... was all she could think as she slowly looked up to see the giant lift his club high, ready to smash her to pulp. Before it could swing, Numilye heard a chant crescendo behind her, and its head was enveloped in an expanding fireball. Granted a few seconds to avoid meeting her god, Numilye stepped forward and smashed the giant's kneecap with all her strength, shattering it. The giant screamed and hopped back on its one good leg, only to be swarmed by a pair of warriors, who hacked its other leg out from under it and drove it to the ground. "So, my dark kin, it looks like your companions abandoned you rather then stand with you." A voice remarked from behind Numilye. She turned around, her features sharpening in disgust as she looked at the high elf before her, but she reminded herself that she owed him her life... Their eyes met, violet and silvery, and there was a spark of recognition. Somehow, they both knew that there was something that connected them. Something that made them unique among the many, many adventurers of Norrath. "Zadown, get that giant!" a cry came from behind them. "One moment." the high elf murmured before turning and dropping a blazing mass of fire on another giant who was moving to pass an occupied group. Roaring in anger, the giant turned and charged Zadown. The magician stood calmly though, as a third figure joined the fray, charging the giant to the sound of braided melodies. Numilye was startled, for the figure was one of the rare Vah Shir, the cat-people of the moon. He was undeniably effective in stinging the giant though, quickly focusing the giant's rage on himself. Numilye took the moment to strike, wracking the giant with pain. The bard struck it again, diverting its attention, and then Zadown smashed it with yet another great fireball. Quickly though, Numilye had to step forward, healing the bard so that he could continue his distracting, stinging attacks against the giant. Still, the trio were hard pressed until a trio of Coldain dwarvern warriors rolled the giant under. Panting for breath, the giant cat man steamed in the chill air as he turned, and Numilye again felt the flash of recognition. "You fight well, little dark elf. I am Camaz-" the cat rumbled. A voice sounded in their minds, cutting the Vah Shir off. I am... I am awake. I am the Dreamer! They were taken by the vision. ----- The Dreamer did not know how long he floated through the void, more dead then alive. He knew that he was dying, that his spider web of power was slipping away from him, strand by strand. His physical body was nearly ruined, and only his stubborn spirit kept him going, even in a place of no hope. Even in the Void. How long the Dreamer wandered, he did not know. He knew that he was far, far away from the Lost Paths and any hope of leaving the Void, and he had not been keeping track of what direction the Paths could be found in, for as time passed and he slipped closer and closer to death, he found himself slipping into memories. Memories, thoughts, and emotions flashed through the Dreamer. He knew he was dying, his soul fraying at the edges. So lost in his memories, the Dreamer almost didn't notice the familiar tug. A world... a world was out there. He turned his senses outward, and his soul drifted towards the warmth of the world he knew was there, though he could not see it. Suddenly, the blackness of the void parted, gave way to stars, the blinding light of a sun, and the comforting blue-green of a world. The Dreamer drifted towards the world helplessly, fascinated by this pocket plane floating in the void, unknown to many, by the webs of power woven by the many gods of this world, the feelings of life emanating from the world... and even its moon! A growing coldness filled the heart of the Dreamer, and he knew that death was fast approaching. He raged silently as he drifted towards the world, raging against fate and death, forcing each breath, each moment of life from his failing body. His senses reached down, and he felt a little spark of life, hovering on the brink of death. A child, fated to be stillborn... but their essences could merge, and both could live... The Dreamer ruled out that plan, for his soul in its full glory would be a beacon in the night for his pursuers, and they would only find him again. His senses touched a speck of life on the moon, one of many. Another that he could merge with. Another speck on the planet, then two more... and another, and another... Eight tiny lives. Eight children who could merge with a portion of the Dreamer's essence, and know power and glory. And in return, his soul would have time to grow strong once again, let the hunters believe he had expired in the Void. There was the possibility it would not work, but balanced against the certainty of death, the Dreamer took the chance. As his last breath rattled in his throat, the Dreamer felt his soul fragment into eight shards, each shard drifting to a child. His last memories were of the freedom and loneliness of birth... ----- The three blinked, unsure of what had overtaken them. "Giants inbound!" a voice roared, and instinctively, they turned and faced the approaching giants. They acted as if they had fought together for years, each knowing the role the others would play, yet they had never met before now. And watching over them, the mind of the Dreamer was pleased with the skills and power of his vessels, and the promise they held within themselves. For now, though, he could feel the tug of his sleep, pulling him down into hibernation again. He knew that it was not yet his time to coalesce and return to his former power. Not yet... but soon, by the immortal standards of the planeswalkers.

The normally graceful ranger of the Pen stumbled down the corridor. The reason he was stumbling was due to the fact that Daryl was pushing the half-elf's legs from behind. Currently a fox, Daryl's pushing tended to fall below the knees, and unless Gyrfalcon stepped forward out of time with his current stride, he was likely to fall over backwards. Finally, Gyrfalcon stopped, whirled around, and picked up Daryl. "I said I was going, Daryl, but I won't make it if I fall down a set of stairs." Daryl grinned sheepishly, which is hard to do for a fox. "Yip yip yurr!" Oh come on, you know I won't push you around stairs! Despite Daryl's assurances, Gyrfalcon tucked the fox under his arm and continued his now much more graceful trek to the Cabaret Room. Entering, he noticed that it was much busier then normal, and much of that business centered around a large sheet of paper on the wall. Quickly though, much of the activity resolved itself, turning out to be Peredhil, Guido, Nuncio and Rune, carrying what looked to be a mismatched collection of laundry and random objects. "He could have at least picked up after himself." Guido muttered to Nuncio before grunting as his brother elbowed him sharply, casting a wary look at Gyrfalcon. Gyrfalcon smiled and nodded politely to the two Guinea Pig bodyguards, wondering at where they had collected such an impressive assortment of bruises, and who they were talking about. Continuing onward, he found that the crowds had cleared, and Gyrfalcon was a bit surprised at how many people had signed up for readings. He himself wouldn't be here if Daryl hadn't pushed, prodded, dragged, wheedled, whined, and otherwise work his bushy tail off to bring him here. The half-elf had thought that more people at the Pen believed in the freedom to choose their fates, but perhaps he was wrong... or perhaps like Daryl, they were interested in listening to their fortune only for amusement's sake. Setting Daryl down, Gyrfalcon dipped a nearby quill in its inkwell and started to sign his name when a small noise caught his attention. Looking at a nearby shelf, he saw a clockwork automaton feebly moving, almost run down. Bending down, the half-elf listened intently to its dying message. "Caryon Arti... Ssiary of Yaw... fortune..." it sputtered to a halt, but Gyrfalcon had caught enough of its message. Returning to the signup sheet, he neatly wrote "Caryon Artificer", before writing his own name on the line below. Daryl yipped at him impatiently, and Gyrfalcon looked down. "You're kidding me, right?" the half-elf asked incredulously, but Daryl shook his head and yipped again. "Oh, all right." Gyrfalcon said, picking Daryl up with one hand and placing the quill between Daryl's stubby 'fingers'. The fox concentrated and slowly scratched out his name in a fairly legible fashion, then impishly added a small sketch of a widely grinning fox head next to it. Shaking his head, Daryl returned the quill to the ink well, then set Daryl down. "Happy now?" he asked the fox impatiently. Daryl yipped his affirmation then races around Gyrfalcon before tagging the ranger with his nose, yipping his desire to go play a prank or two on those smarmy Scantivia brothers. Gyrfalcon shook his head. "No, Daryl, we are *not* going to go pull a prank on them... despite the fact it may be fun. I'm and Elder, and you're my guest, and our actions would reflect badly on the Pen as a whole if we did... however satisfying it may be personally." The two continued down the corridor, still debating the merits of pulling a few pranks or not.

Hm... given that the page that should have these things is currently non-operational, I'll go retrieve them. *five minutes later* Temple of the Ancients http://the-ancients.cjb.net/ World of Two Skies http://www.twoskies.net/ Fanfiction.Net http://www.fanfiction.net/ Hm... Alright all of you out there- you must have favorite places to read other then the Pen- post up your links and they'll end up in List of Useful Sites in the Help files. *points above* It's currently non-operational... I plan to correct that, probably tomorrow.

Gyrfalcon is pounced on and hugged as he moves from his bedroom to the dining room in a zombie-like fashion. Five minutes later, he murmurs "Thanks, Ayshela!" He never was a morning person.

Happy Birthday, Tas! I do have to ask... why are you serving penguin cake? Why not penguin-shaped cakes? That way your precious penguins are still alive! Hope you had a great birthday though!

Valdar has chosen to take the rank of Herald and has so been instated. Justin, you now have the title to match your skills. Enjoy your rank, Poet. And now you two can set your sights on a new goal- Bard.

A quick note to Justin and Valdar- the ranks you can move to at this point beyond Quillbearer are Troubadour, Poet and Herald. The rank of Bard must be granted by the Elders, so it gives you something more to work towards. From the Membership list: Heralds Role-Players and Commentators Poets Writers of Rhyme and Verse Troubadour Writers of Prose Congratulations to you both, and to everyone else promoted!

Happy Birthday, Nyyark- hope you enjoyed it!

Gyrfalcon shook his head in bemusement as Salinye almost skipped down the hall, various doors closing behind her to the sound of resounding grumbles over lost sleep. The half-elf looked at the bundle in his hands and the card lying on top and shook his head again, this time in amusement. He knew that Salinye could be a little vague, but tonight seemed to take the cake... along with the serving platter and quite possibly the table. Shifting the gift and card to one arm, he waved an apology to Daryl and the others who had quarters near his before gently closing the door. Setting the bundle on the table, Gyrfalcon carefully trimmed the lamp's wick and lit the lamp. Even the ranger's partially elven vision wasn't enough to allow him to read the card by the light of an overcast night, and he wanted to inspect the details of the gift more closely. Once the room was lit to his satisfaction, Gyrfalcon sat down and opened the card, chucking quietly at the humorously dancing bugs. Shaking his head, he placed it in a cubby and took out a sheet of paper, scratching a note on it to return the card on Salinye's next birthday before placing both in his desk drawer. With any luck, it'd make a nice tradition. Smiling and chuckling softly again, Gyrfalcon unwrapped the bundle to reveal the enchanted quiver within. Pulling it out, Gyrfalcon inspected the quiver critically, impressed by the quality of the stitching and the leather. Even without enchantments, it was a work of art. The half-elf held his hand over the quiver and spoke a few words quietly, invoking one of his few lingering magical abilities. The quiver glowed a rich blue, and the half-elf was more then a little surprised. While an enchantment to provide an endless stream of arrows was no meager spell, it normally wasn't as substantial as this one seemed to be. Opening the quiver, Gyrfalcon slid one of the arrows out of the quiver and inspected it, noticing the elven fletching and the razor sharp mithril head... and the faint blue glow from the arrow. Enchanted, allowing it to harm creatures not normally affected by metal. Gyrfalcon put the arrow beside the quiver and watched it intently. He blinked his eyes a minute later and when they opened, the arrow had disappeared. Without looking, Gyrfalcon knew that another arrow had appeared in the quiver. Closing the quiver's flap, Gyrfalcon placed it beside his bow and shook his head, impressed by the gift that Salinye had made for him... and had waved off as a minor birthday gift. Returning to his chair, Gyrfalcon leaned back, wondering to himself at the depths of Salinye's power that this gift hinted at. Shrugging the question away, the half-elf reminded himself instead of her generosity in creating the quiver to give to him in the first place. "Thank you, Salinye." he whispered quietly before snuffing the lamp and returning to his interrupted sleep.

Happy Birthday, Distarius!

Congratulations to you all, and especially to Justin Silverblade and Valdar. Excellent work you two- you earned your places.

Happy Birthday, Kokuryuu!

No, this isn't the way things have to go. Take some time for yourself, contemplating. Write a little- a story just for you. Then decide whether or not you want to give up your creativity. I'll see you around, my friend. The Pen will never let you go.

Happy Birthday, Zool, I hope you enjoyed it.