Wyvern

Imposter I'm not offended, I just try to find stuff wrong with people's posts for sport. Impostor stop calling me chief!

Aegon Imposter, Please, don't be offended, I meant in in a purely Role-Play manner. Those are just Aegon's thoughts at the time... remember, he is completly enamoured with Yui, and thinks as high of her as he can... To Aegon, all her her best writing would be very personal letters to himself, which of course is not something that one would submit to public viewing!

The Big Pointy One Alright, just like in school, I'm going to do this just before the deadline. I hope you don't mind if I do so here. I think I'm going to do something unique and tell my story in the form of Haiku, so it's going to be kinda difficult... here goes... The Story of The Big Pointy One Many years ago A small brown haired boy was born In a small village. For the first few years he lead a peaceful living learning and growing until war hit home he was but sixteen years old and he chose to fight barbarian hordes came they ravaged the small village killing all but some stick they left for dead he fought bravely but for naught he was no soldier but his chance soon came as he lied, ready to die a serene voice came it told him that day he had great things coming soon but first he must live so he forced himself he forced himself to go on then started walking not knowing where to he just kept on walking on to his destiny days after he left he finally reached his goal he fell to the ground looking around him "Where am I?" he asked aloud "You are home" he heard "My home was burned down" "This will be your new home now" "What will happen now?" "All in due time- rest." The Stick quickly fell asleep his journey ending. The next morning came and he received his namesake the BigPointyStick foolish in naming deadly and fierce in battle- indescructible many years he trained perfecting his new weapon among with new skills gaining life from trees gaining strength from the planet and harnessing both many more years passed The Big Pointy One grew much in strength and power he then took vengeance against the barbarous hordes attaining revenge again the voice came telling him his new duty: to protect Terra he simply nodded took it in stoically and accepted fate he loves his duty rising to defend the earth from it's attackers he slays all who harm precious home, mother of all his master, Nature. A warning goes out: To those who seek destruction Beware of the Stick Both man and weapon For he will destroy you more than you could the land. ~~~~ Ok, the end might not fit, but whatever... I hope that's an acceptable entry.

that may very well be true... in fact, it is true, in my opinion. But you shouldn't actually SAY that! It's disparaging to the other contestants! like me! I mean, I don't want to lose until I actually do lose! come on! be more considerate! Impostor contemplater of stuff [This message has been edited by Impostor (edited June 26, 2001).]

Aegon In the main library Del'rath palace, a single candle guttered, and wax dribbled and froze like ice against the base of the stand. The flame flickered out as Aegon put down the old letterhe had finished reading. He made no move to strike a fresh light, but instead stood, and wandered over to the tall window, contemplating on that which he had just read. The letter was one from a few years ago, his beloved, Yui, had written it to him when he was away on a matter of diplomacy to his allies at the Circle of Power. It had been a trivial little matter, nothing more than a courtesy visit, really But none the less, it had meant that Aegon had to endure leaving his love for a few weeks. He recollected when he received the letter, for it meant a lot to him, as did all Yui's words. Originally, Yui had intended to not send him the letter, however something in her inner soul had compelled her to... for which Aegon had been grateful. He hated being away from her, and it had made his heart all the less weighty. The reason he had been combing through his old documents was a writing contest. One in which, he thought, Yui warranted to place well. His love was an exquisite writer, with a great eye for detail, which easily made his own writings seem drab and basic. He smiled again, and glanced through the letter. Ahh, my love, your finesse with the pen is unsurpassed. Aegon thought to himself, once again marvelling over the writing. I shall enter this into the writing contest for you myself, and then when your expertise is proven... a smile shall light your face... and that is a sight to behold. -------------------------------------------------- A few days later found Aegon heading down the great General Assembly Banquet hall. He had rarely visited this hall, being too busy with his Diplomatic duties for Army of Darkness. However, he had come here on the occasion, and often enjoyed his visits. Now, however, he was here for a reason... the contest. Pinpointing Wyvern's office door, he hastily approached it and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again.... No answer. Curious, Aegon turned the door handle, and quietly slipped into the room. As he had expected... it was empty. He looked around, but only for a second, for he spied a small desk. "I'll just leave it here with a note, I've no time to dally around waiting." Aegon muttered to himself under his breath as he approached the desk. He took the letter from his backpack, and laid it upon the desk. Then, fetching his parchment and pen, he began to write Wyvern a short note. Satisfied with the short note, Aegon placed it upon the letter on the desk, then put a paperweight on the tips of the parchments, to hold them. He smiled to himself, happy that he had traveled to the General Assembly to enter Yui into this grand contest. Now in a hurry, Aegon quickly turned and headed out of the office to resume his job, and travel to the halls of the White Rose to meet his love, before heading home. [This message has been edited by Aegon (edited June 26, 2001).]

Cerulean ACK! Look at the time. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late! Wyv, I'm scrambling around desperately to submit my entry by the deadline, if I don't make it, I'll post it in the Conservatory later. Just didn't want you to think I wasn't interested in the competition. I'm delighted to have been numbered among your choices, thank you. Finn, your contribution to the party was legendary! I still rate your opening lines as the funniest in the whole thread. But I haven't forgotten about my spoons. You're not off the hook just yet my friend.

Finnius As I said before, I write it now. Here's to you, whoever you are: Topic 2, Entry I came here not so long ago, just towards the end of last reset. For the first few days, I read. I read the App boards mainly, looking for information on this game called Archmage. The information was found, absorbed, catalouged, then promptly forgotten until I had need to dredge it up. This is how my mind works. I found nothing of particular importance or interest to me, outside of a very narrow use in-game. And then I found the Conservatory. And with that, I found something that was very much of interest, and yes, importance. I found Gyrfalcon the Mad, Nimball games, insanely profound and funny poetry. I found Flying Grapes and Ol' Peculiar. What I found was a roleplaying community that was stuck together more by the people than the characters. Of course, there was plenty of in-character stuff, too. It took me almost a week to get my bearings in that place, reading and re-reading, until I was ready to write, something I hadn't done extensively for years prior. Above all this, I found one author who continually surprised and delighted me with his views on life and depth of talent. And then I found another. And then several more, then an idiot who had no idea what he was doing, then a few more great writers. To tell the truth, the reason I haven't put a name to this story yet is that I would leave an enormous amount of people out. I can't begin to thank you all, or to fully explain the impact you've had on my writing and on my personal life. I will, however, try. You might want to put on a safety helmet, these names are going to be flying. [in no particular order:] Peredhil, the most unfailingly polite and modest person I have ever met. He deserves a sainthood more than me, certainly. Yui Temae, who's depth of wit is beyond my ability to safely plumb. Cerulean/Scarlett, who I thank for letting me pull myself into the mainstream at a certain party. Arawn, for his imaginative views on modern-day Terra, some of which I blatantly... err... borrowed. Gyrfalcon, who exemplifies a competent use of power. I have never seen him abuse his title. Orlan, lounge singer extraordinaire, and sexy, sexy man. Also, one of those people who can twist an ordinary sentence into something new and exciting. Canid, who will be the first against the wall when the revo-... I mean, a fine poet. Hydrus, Yaaaaaargh! And last, but certainly not least, Wyvern, who I am sure will be unable to resist a good palm-greasing when he sees one. And if he does, will someone tell me? There are so many more to name, I could go on for days. There are so many I've missed, so many that I've wronged by not including them here. I'll wrap this up with a stolen line, but one that I think fits here as well as anywhere. So long, and thanks for all the fish. (God, that man was a genius. I miss him.) [This message has been edited by Finnius (edited June 22, 2001).]

Arawn It's funny, but peredhil31's first story would mirror my response if I made one. Dang! Only 6 days! I better get to work!

Wyvern A gentle reminder to those who wish to compete in the contest but have not done so yet: it ends the 28th. Thus this gives you all approximatly one more week to submit applications. After the 28th, no applications will be considered. Thank you.

Peredhil Peredhil rests from research and war, and finally looks over the contest categories carefully. Elladan, with a suckered scar from a Mind Ripper’s reach where his bandage was, reads over his shoulder, as does Elrohir. “Ouch, the first is painful , the second sycophantic, and the third impossible.” Behind his back, Elladan and Elrohir exchange glances. “You know you have to write something Dad, Wyvern is too good of a friend not to do so. You can write on the second one.” Peredhil makes a face and sighs. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not the contest, it’s my embarrassment speaking.” “No problem Dad, you just scribble something off, and El’ and I will make sure it gets to the Banquet Hall on time…” As Peredhil pulls a fresh piece of parchment toward himself, his sons exit the room. “One or Three, El’?” “I’ll take Three ‘Dan” “He’s going to be livid you know.” “Sometimes you do what’s in your heart, not his.” “You’ve been hanging around Dad too long.” Laughing lightly, they move to their rooms to write… The one Archmage whose influence has been greatest on me has definitely been Saint Zool. When I first posted, it was ignored. As a farewell post, I made some comments on the Upside Down Crosses thread. It was there that Zool found me. A flurry of email and Yahoo! Messenger chats ensued, while I remained quiet on the UBB, doubting whether my voice was worthy to be heard. It was Zool who hounded me until I posted, and then took the time to reply with feedback. It was Zool who helped me to realize that comparing myself to such brilliant writers as himself, Woods, The Grim Squeaker, or Tzimfemme was comparing peas to apples. Each of us has our own voice, and that voice was right for us. It was Zool who forgave me when I totally rewrote one of his intended posts, and showed me that friendships can survive intense honesty and painful anger. When Real Life bit, Zool was the only friend who offered support and empathy, rather than advice and judgement. Truly, in and out of game, he remains a mentor and exemplifies the purest qualities of a Bard. Plus, he writes a pretty mean ‘Flush’ post. Elladan sat musing over the myriad worlds he’d traveled in the wake of his father. He’d watched him study healing in a thousand worlds, yet remain unhealed in his heart. Bowing head to hand, he began writing. The Ring Bearers passed from Middle Earth, all but two. Samwise was too firmly grounded in family, and Sauron was denied entry. We followed Grandfather’s course; the great Silmaril bound to his brow lit our way through day and night. Arrival in the Undying West came after arduous journey. The Valar themselves came down to the shores to greet us, particularly Gandalf and Galadriel. Father immediately began searching for our mother, who’d left many years in the past seeking healing and memories surcease. Their reunion was intense yet subdued. There were shadows even this close to the light. She made much of how we’d grown, yet I for one had trouble forgiving her for leaving us to deal with her own pains. Who can count time when in the presence of Elbereth? Oh fairest one, your memory has lit the paths of memory in a thousand worlds! But we noticed that Father ever studied the Healing Arts, delving deeper into the Mysteries. The provinces of Making and Healing had always come naturally to him, now he pursued them with a vengeance. Disturbed by this intensity, we went to Manwe. “Your mother has never truly healed her torments at the hands of the Orcs. The fallen cousins wreaked havoc on her body and mind, yet the worst torment is the pleasure she found toward the end. Her body still torments her with learned passions your father cannot provide.” Father spent time with Aule learning smithing and forging under that Master. He found ways to reactivate Vilya, and to make other lesser rings. Guildo and Nuncio’s Faerie Dragon rings come of that Lore. And still our parents grew more distant even as they grew more loving. The final day came when Mother, unable to bear the traitoress lusts within, managed to bring death to the Undying place. Father opened the Adept Gate and fled his unbearable pain. He finds some shadows of solace in healing and helping others. I know he torments himself with his inability to help the one he loved most. That Elrohir and I would follow him was inevitable. We have been traveling from world to world, universe to universe, ever since. Elrohir views the blank parchment distastefully. Over the centuries, he’s found it easier and easier to listen, and harder and harder to speak. Very few things, in his opinion, really are worth saying. Also he’s set himself to guard his Father as much as possible, a full time occupation for someone whose given up fear. Soon the rhythmic scratch of the quill is the only sound in his study. It would needs be The Cult of the Polite Mage. Adherents would ever promote Manners and disdain Rudeness. They would give over the pleasure in the pain of others. When fighting, it would be effectively and reluctantly, driven by Justice and not Passion. When the battle was over, they would embrace former enemies as friends. They would never lose sight that acceptance of the other’s individually comes before judgement of their actions. They would make decisions for themselves, based on what was right for them without blaming or reacting off others. They would take responsibility for their own actions, emotions, and choices. They would ever strive to rise above the banal tit-for-tat mentality that locks Mages into an ever-spiraling descent into righteous proud destruction. They would forgo their right to throw another’s words back in their face, and encourage growth, promote creativity, and affirm positive choice. Polite Mages give over fear as a determinant. Their decision-making is based first on, “Right or Wrong?” and second on “Appropriate or Inappropriate?” They would endeavor always to write interesting War Arrows. When confronted with stupidity or ignorance, they would educate. When confronted with Rudeness, they would retaliate, always explaining what was Rude, and demonstrating a better way. When confronted with hostility or bands of Rudeness, they will not compromise. Just as Law only exists when enforced, so Manners only exist when enforced. Every time a ‘random’ arrow is accepted without comment a new, lower, standard is set. Polite Mages with find the energy to maintain the standard. When all is said or done, the Polite Mage may easily be forgotten. But their legacy lives on every time a Mage chooses a Role Played Arrow rather than Random, responds to a Rude Arrow of Cursing with Creativity and Wit. This would be the Cult of the Polite Mage. Looking it over, Elrohir realizes once again, he is no Bard.

Three Acolytes of Nekkidness were walking down the street one day. The guy acolyte squeezes himself between the lady acolytes and asks them, "Do you believe in the hereafter?" "Of course!" they say. "Well then," he smiles, "you know what I'm here after!" and tries to goose them. . . .and the Pope of Nekkidness did smite his co-high priest with his crook. "Not now dear," mumbled the Saint of Nekkidness, who was sprawled out flat in a puddle of spilled booze and mug shards. "I predict that he will shortly be beaten and robbed by his overworked colleagues," the Oracle of Nekkidness did smile. . .

Finnius Wyv, I think I'll take your offer of a redo on basis of topic change. I'm not posting the new entry now, because I'm not done with it. When I get around to it, though, it will be on topic number two, as no one has felt it within themselves to reply to it yet.

Knight tEB I the Oracle, and High priest of the Cult of Nekkidness hereby doth declare the follwoing prophecies: I. Every thing results in three. Let this holy number signify all else. There exist three, and this three is one. The Pope, the Saint, and the Oracle. Nothing can be without this holy trinity. II. There exist three classes. These classes are one, as they are three. They cannot exist without one another, yet exist independantly. The pedestals, are the feet. The troubadors are the heart. The wolves are the fist. The three must exist together, or not at all. III. There exist three apostles. The apostles are a collective mind, body and soul. The Apostle of the Mind, the Apostle of the Body, and the Apostle of the Soul are all equally important, and equally unique, yet must not exist seperately. IV. There exist three groups of fighters. These fighters differ in title, and act, but are all the same. They are led by three, who work as one. The classe are henceforth called the Flagellants, the Swords, and the Guards. The Flagellants flay the foolhardy masses, The swords beat the unrepentant and members of other faiths, and the Guards defend the members of the Cult of Nekkidness. They exist to serve the Cult. These words have been spoken through me, The Oracle and High Priest of Nekkidness, by the great Tzimfemme, High Saintess of Nekkidness.

Tzimfemme and Rydia High Priests(1) and Fools(2), Flagellants(3), Wolves(4), Cardinal rules And multiple truths. . . Two Guards(5) at my door, Preventing furor. One dead Troubadour(6), A study, a cure. Delusions rage high Among two or more. Head, find the sky; Feet, find the floor. --fragment from the Canto of Culthood (1) In those days, High Priest initiation rites consisted of a forced 'bad trip' of a drug antithecal to the user; samples taken from shattered vials of the period include peyote, methamphetamines, and Antabuse. (2) Unlike many other titles, the Fools were not tattooed with the same number; one corpse bore two lines while the other bore eight. (3) Flagellants' bodies were unscarred, suggesting that their function was to thrash others--possibly their god(ess)--with their accompanying iron-knotted scourges. (4) Wolves were buried with a wolfskin around their loins and were the only bodies found bearing weapons of any sort. Many of these bore two sets of tattoos, one with the lines spiraling clockwise and the other counterclockwise. (5) Found buried underneath heaps of shattered beer-bearing pottery, each bearing a five-line tattoo. Evidently they weren't performing their duty! (6) Oddly, this is the only reference to a single person. The body in question has not yet been found.

Degenero Angelus Degenero wanders in from outside I REALLY need to start reading the GA, I mean, I missed this for however long it's been up? Any writing contest is worth being in, even though I doubt I'll win, mainly because stories aren't my thing, and I can't think of an appropriate free verse to write in response to this. Not to mention the people I'm posting against. This is going to be a disaster. Degenero walks out of them room witha napkin and a pen in hand, scribbling things and looking worried

Cerulean Cerulean stares at the blue Mage who is now purple with rage. Next she gazes at Harpy, who is alternating between debilitating paroxysms of mirth and shamelessly insincere gestures of apology. She takes a deep breath. "Starlett, give the nice man back his liver please. It doesn't belong to you." Harpy rocks and quivers on her spiked heels. Her hands are clasped tightly behind her back, and her eyes are nuclear. A small strand of intestine is caught between her front teeth, and she pokes it viciously with her tongue before replying. "Shan't!" Cerulean draws a deeper breath still. "Harpy, are you going to be unreasonable all your life?" Starlett whistles tunelessly and widens her eyes with mock innocence. It is the innocence of an apprehended terrorist bearing hostages in an armoury full of plastic explosives. "Unreasonable Cerulean, why whatever do you mean?" Harpy's eyes narrow. Cerulean sighs audibly at the hot tempers which have abounded recently, and makes to snatch the stolen organ from Harpy's grasp. Harpy dodges and weaves, skips off left and thunders towards the door. Mages are strewn every which way as they block her path. Behind her, like a jet trail in the sky, she hurls the words " NIMLIVER" Finnius looks at Cerulean. Cerulean looks at Finnius. They both cry out weakly in unison: "Nooooooooo!"

Finnius Starlett, Scarlett, fume and roil, All you like, come play or toil, I've still my mind, which you will find, Is more than match for your droll kind. You march and rant, and rant and rage, And cut things up upon your stage, And pierce the heart of this poor mage, Who'd showed affection for an age. But that's no more, as you can see, Killed by that unkind cut to me, In anger now, I shake and shiver, Could you please give me back my liver?

Wyvern I've seen some VERY good applications thus far. Come the 28th, I'm going to have to make some seriously difficult decisions... Peredhil and others nervous about posting: you have nothing to lose. After all, there are going to be 3 winners of this contest...

Scarlett O'Harpy Harpy shrieks and Harpy rages, (It's a skill she's had for ages), Marches up to a blue Finn And thumps him smartly on the chin. 'Enslave me would you?' spat with malice, I'll be Queen and you play Alice... Turning to her sword of red She cruelly screams 'Off with his head!' The sword, obedient - does as bidden, Harpy can't keep her grin hidden, Gazing at the pool of gore, She extracts organs - as of yore. And as she works, a chant is twined, To aid his poor befuddled mind, So he knows once and for all clear, The name of he, that she holds dear. 'The one I love is not you Finn, Give up the quest you'll never win. You need the glance, the sculpted chin, Which makes a Starlett shake within. It's Rapture sets my heart aflame; So please just stop this foolish game, And now you must relinquish claim, Cos friend... you'll never get this dame!' And now that Harpy's work's complete, She feasts on liver - what a treat! If only she had upped the ante, To some fava beans - and a nice Chianti. Muahaha!

Tzimfemme and Rydia Candidates for the title of Fool, be acknowledged! For your approval. . .hmm. . .For your approval, assign the other one to a different title, and be the fool who safeguards the lunatic from the other! Candidates for the title of High Priest, be acknowledged! For your approval. . .have a deep and maddened dream in my manner, that is to say, do not stop until you are in pain! (Rydia backs slowly away from the board, wondering aloud, "This is getting a little bit freaky, and not in a good way.")

Here's my entry, in answer to Question #1 INTRODUCTION: The life of a character, much as the life of a real person, is filled with turning-points and moments of great significance. It is a grueling task indeed to pick out one moment which would be so much greater than others as to deserve separate discussion. In addition, the research leading to the dissertation below has been hampered by the unfortunate circumstance that the history of its subject, Impostor, is a little-studied and much-maligned discipline. According to Dr. Georg Heidegger of the Terran Research Institute (TRI), even the best young minds in Impology and Impognostics have largely chosen to shy away from the Impostor question, instead focusing primarily on the histories of Blinky, Drinky, and, rather inexplicably, Thoralf. As a result, there simply is not enough information from which to piece together the undoubtedly entertaining, yet probably quite educational story of Impostor, with any degree of lucidity. All that we know for sure is that Impostor was born Idaho LeVersage in the year 479 SATT (Second Age of the Third Terra). The details of his younger years and personal life are very sketchy. His later achievements are as yet undocumented, owing largely to the lack of them. Nevertheless, after years of determined study, Dr. Arseniy Psevdonimsky has published his interpretation of the event of greatest significance in the life of Impostor. It is truly a masterpiece, and I unequivocally recommend it to any scholar whatsoever interested in the subject. I can only hope that you find it as absorbing and profound as I have. Sincerely, Dr. Generus da Praise Dean of Historical Faculty Mid-North-Central Terra State Community University P.S.: gooo MNCTSCU magic beavers!!! The Turning-Point in the Life of an Impostor: A Concise Interpretive Examination by Arseniy Psevdonimsky Impostor is a character that often seems rooted in mystery. In our pop-culture based society, almost everyone has heard of the name. Yet very few know anything of any verisimilitude about his life. Even less understand any of his motives, his actions, "what makes him tick." This state of affairs simply must be changed if we are to predict Impostor's actions and preclude any misfortunes they may cause to the general populace in the future. Since, as renowned historian Plutarco Juan Hippolito Jorge y Venustiano de Santa Iberia y Smith notes in his book History of Stuff "a man may best be understood by the turning points in his life," the most direct course to our aim is to recount, with as much candid frankness as is permittable, the main event of significance in his lifetime to date. This is generally accepted to be his original acceptance into "The Pen is Mightier than the Sword" in the year 17 TAFST (third age of the first slow terra). The most profound change resulting from his acceptance into the group, according to Marshall Prohodim in Impognostics for People who aren't Smart, was to Impostor's character. Before the event, Impostor seemed to be a worthless excuse for a mage. His positive contributions to the Archmage community beforehand had amounted to an average of ~4.5 per annum. Afterwards, this number experienced a sharp rise and is currently averaging at 17.2 per annum. Negative contributions also experienced an increase, although of a smaller nature. According to Georg Heidegger, such sharp changes can only be constituted by an epiphany-like syndrome. Therefore it is scientifically assumable that the increase is at least 95% caused by membership in the Pen, with an error margin of less than 3% 90% of the time. Regardless how these results are interpreted, it is quite safe to say that before membership in the Pen Impostor was a nobody, an unhappy wretch, whereas after he seemed to be a whole new mage. As Granny Award winning rapper Unkle Ronnie put it in I feel like praising Him and some other people, it was as if his soul was rescued by the astounding kindness of god and saccharine music from above. As much as Impostor's character had been reversed, so had his interaction with others. Before, although his first incarnation had been remembered by some, his current state was a complete mystery to everyone. It was as if he disappeared off the face of Terra and could not return. Through his joining the Pen, Impostor got back into the Terran theatre of action. The community rediscovered him, and he rediscovered the community. In all, membership in the Pen in all likelihood helped him regain a sense of himself. Lastly, the Pen membership seemed to affect Impostor's vision and perception skills. This assertion has been disputed by some eminent scholars of the day, most notably by sumo wrestler-turned-epiphany expert Agamemnon Sakuranohana in his Olfactory and Vision Stimuli, and how Self-Understanding Affects them. The evidence, however speaks for itself. After membership in the Pen, Impostor's outward appearance improved dramatically, which most attribute to a newly-gained ability to look at oneself in the mirror. Besides Dr. Sakuranohana is currently weighing in at 450 kg. and someone so fat obviously has no idea about epiphanies. Does the above information have any relevance to Impostor in his current state? You be the judge. But in my opinion, it clearly does. Had this transformation not befallen Impostor, it is unlikely he would be such a prominent player in today's current events. The impact of the association of "The Pen is Mightier than the Sword," whether for good or for evil was clearly the most significant event in the life of Impostor, and will continue to influence him for years to come. It is a safe prediction that the date 17 TAFST will be remembered by Terrans for generations into the future. lest you judge too harshly consider these facts: -I used good historiography -I managed to paraphrase the first verse of "Amazing Grace" while multiplying the word count manifold, and yet not adding any information of any value -I wrote an expository essay (unlike some contestants), which is what you're supposed to do for these types of assignments -I tried my hardest to suck up as much as possible. I at least should be rewarded for that -uuuuhhh, my name is cool Impostor or, in this case, Alex [Edit: boy, things just don't seem as good when you look at them the next day =( Unkle Ronnie? What was I thinking? Edited to change grammatical errors] [This message has been edited by Impostor (edited June 14, 2001).]

Fool Jechum, I smite you with a rat-head on a stick for beating me to the proverbial punch. Seeing as I am a Fool and jester in the truest sense, I would like to apply for the job stated in part three. My resume is as follows: Foolishness Wisdom XXI, commonly called "the Fool" Court jester at Nocourt, twenty some-odd years, previously an apple picker in his majesty's service. Though of humble means, I can sing, dance, jest, tumble, juggle, spit fire, and put out said fire before it becomes a raging inferno. I am somewhat bereft of the magic that everyone here-abouts seems to possess, but do not let that disuade you. (On a personal note, this "magic" thing is far too far over my head, but as I am somewhat height-challenged, I am used to this.) I await your reply.

Peredhil Peredhil reads the mounting replies in wonder at the quality, pursuing links and reacquainting himself with some old stores, and absorbing the new. Rejoicing at the triumphant posts of the others, yet he despairs at his own secret desire. I'm supposed to post after... THOSE?! Taking Pen in hand, he begins scribbling furious. At the end of each page he wads it and tosses it into the fire. A bizarre rhythmn of creation and destruction ensues. He begins singing softly under his breath, his cursed repetitious writing song of blockage... Death, Destruction, Revival. The Mage cycle of Survival. Only Creativity endures each world, Only Integrity flies unfurled, Death, Destruction, Revival...

Tzimfemme and Rydia I shall tell the tale of how Tzimfemme won her sainthood. Tzimfemme one day walked hand in hand with her love Orlan, silent after sharing memories. Though she was presently content, she brooded unsmiling upon the past. Her fingers memorized his palm and her feet matched his pace. He noticed her attention and asked, “What do you find so fascinating about me today?” “I am memorizing you,” she replied, gazing steadily ahead. “I must depart, and I shall entrust to you my safe return. But I vow, I shall not forget you while I am gone.” “Take me with you!” cried Orlan. “I shall defend you and keep you from being alone.” She negated him with an upraised hand. “This is my journey,” said she, biting at her wrist, and spitting her blood upon the ground. The earth feasted and collapsed, itself eaten by the infernal blackness. Tzimfemme waited by the surging darkness with her flail upraised. The horned huntsman screamed as he rode the black flames and reared above Tzimfemme’s head. Raising her flail equally, she sliced through the fire and caused the devil prince to fall. “May you never find the light of day again!” shrieked he before he touched the naked earth and burst. Tzimfemme’s flesh wormed around her body to avoid the splatters of demon flesh and she remained unscarred. She stepped into the culvert, descending on the retreating blackness, and the earth closed above her head. In the netherworld, she walked in the eternal gloom, her skin not shuddering as the clammy fog touched her. For one hundred days she wandered, slicing the infernal snares as she passed and releasing the souls which they bound back-to-back. On the hundredth day, the fallen dominion I’on’e came by to check its snares, and roared with wrath when it found the trail of slashed ribbons. On broken and scabbed wings it flew after the trail, screeching anew when it spied the living mage in its domain. “Halt, trespasser!” it cried, pointing scabbed and useless eyes at Tzimfemme. It lowered its nostrils to Tzimfemme’s head and sniffed, pulling her hair upwards. “I know you now. I smelled your death on your childish breath, when you traded your soul for a toy. You tossed it aside when your conscience died. I hope that you’ve suffered much joy,” gloated I’on’e. “I am a woman now, and wise. I saw you turn away from love and respect to pursue your selfish ends. And gods forgive me, in my jealousy, I followed. But no longer! Give back that which is mine and you shall keep what is yours.” So speaking, Tzimfemme placed her hand on the body of I’on’e and plunged it inside, then withdrew a shriveled heart and tucked it between her own breasts for safe-keeping. The fallen dominion split in two and crawled away in opposite directions. Tzimfemme turned away from the halves and did not look back. Meanwhile in the land of the living, Orlan worried for his love. He questioned all the nether mages with subtle threats and honeyed promises, seeking one who had recently been to the netherworld, and who might have seen Tzimfemme, yet none of them cooperated. Finally he came to the ruinous realm of the child Minta and the vampire Rosemary. “I do not deal with the demonic!” cried the latter, refusing Orlan outright, and thrusting a black ankh into his face. Yet the child laughed and agreed, and chanted songs of mourning, and let her bloody tears drip upon the ground. Orlan reached out to the questing hand which emerged from the bloodstained earth. Carefully it traced and tested his own before gripping tightly. Orlan braced his feet and pulled, and Tzimfemme emerged from the earth unscathed. She caught Minta by the shoulder, removed the shriveled heart, and thrust it within Minta’s empty chest. The little girl screamed as the contract was undone and her conscience returned to her deeds. The vampire screamed also as her talisman shattered and poured illumination onto her. Tzimfemme listened to the cries with pain, standing aloof and quiet as Orlan comforted the pair. When their cries ceased, Tzimfemme turned to Orlan and held out her arms. “We need comfort,” she said, and embraced him, and kissed him, and told him that he should also be naked to her, as she had no longer regret or shame for her selves, and concealed nothing. So he was, and so they remain together, and so the wearers of masks revered her for neither needing nor wanting masks. Thus was she canonized.

The Big Pointy One Would my The Way Things Are thread be acceptable as an entry? That is, if I finish it by the deadline...