Peredhil

One of your better songs, Falcon. Watching someone locking into a co-dependent cycle can be terribly frustrating. Most focus on the abuser, but forget not the implied consent of the abusee. The more they learn to love and believe in themself, the sooner they're freed from their chains. I'd download an mp3 of this... -Peredhil

Nice to see an affirmation of life in the Grey. Remember - let others judge your works, don't do it yourself. -Peredhil

Nicely done. One can almost see the little fishy. Where is the little fishy? Peredhil slaps himself before he segues into the Intermission from Monty Python's Meaning of Life Movie. I'm reminded of the calming effect fish had on the protagonists of C.J. Cherryh's Cyteen novels. -Peredhil

I like it. I'll try to reread it more critically when I have a chance. I always enjoy poems about womb-mates... -P

Welcome! I hope to see more - particularly if it will be this good. -P

Keep up the good fight! You'll always have a home here... By the way, do you have the latest passwords? Email me if not. -Peredhil

Peredhil checks and rechecks his mail. Did you send it to peredhil31@hotmail.com? Did you put "The Mighty Pen" in the subject line? I haven't received an email from you yet!!!

You are one of the first. Remember, as Zool has shown, one can bounce from Elder to Ancient to Elder again. I'll be following you soon... -Peredhil

Peredhil reminds all new initiates that they should email him if they want the Critic's Corner password.

Art Mirrors Life, and a piece of stone is what we paint it to be... I know my own mirror inside is like a fun-house crystal. It magnifies others while diminishing me, so I try not to focus on myself. The pieces of glass set on walls don't show the 'me' I know in my head and heart to be true. A friend's love is the only mirror I need.

Welcome Hydrus! Will you be doing any cooking while you're here? I understand Dwarves are famous for their cooking. Peredhil looks around for Melba or Wyvern to move the application along.

Great job Foe Caliber - and nicely announced Bhurin. Thank you for doing this, it was great fun. Scurries away to play with Foe Caliber's title for a few moments... -Peredhil

Peredhil pauses in his relentless pace and haste and listens to the Application song. Sweet! Motioning to Melba, he indicates she should definitely give this one the Short Form application sheet.

Verrry nice. In haste, -Peredhil

When I read your works, I find myself straining to hear the tune - they 'feel' like music to me. Nicely done, I wouldn't mind reading more... -Peredhil

This is very well done and a neat concept. I know something has hit home when I think, "Oh! Now I want to write one of those!" -Peredhil

Ouch. As a father who is sometimes "too busy", this makes me stop and consider once again. Good (pointed) writing. -Peredhil

Peredhil admits reluctantly that he is somewhat prejudiced against prejudiced people...

May I give this to a friend of mine? He's a Vietnam Veteran who's never quite come home...

A whisper trails through her mind... Don't forget to email me for the Critic's Corner password... The Mighty Pen in the subject line... and please include your screen name here (Tralla) so I may update my Lists... -Peredhil ( peredhil31@hotmail.com )

Stepping out of Role Playing, Peredhil turns to Damienn Ravencroft and whispers, If you write an email to peredhil31@hotmail.com and put Mighty Pen in the subject line, I'd be pleased and happy to send you the password to the Critic's Corner...

Peredhil's face is reddish in hue It's quite obvious he's had a few But he realizes with chagrin That no foam's on his chin For he only drinks Mountain Dew! For such a silly Elf or Man He's doing the drunk as best he can It's been years since he was drunk As he remembers with a thunk Why he's not an alcohol fan. He'd drunk three Polynesian Paralyzi In five minutes - and then thought he'd die Twenty-two hours of dry heaves As the rum from his body leaves Kneeling at the commode asking, "Why?" Tis far better to drink his pop And act drunk 'till all others drop Avoiding the physical abuse Not needing the alcohol excuse To be crazy and 'over the top'.

Tzimfemme said that Isachar said that the Spoony Bard said that the Squirrel Duo said that I once received the Order of the Quill award! Peredhil signals Guido and Nuncio who carry several chests over behind the bar. There's the last of my Geld from Terra. $355,851. Drinks are on my tab as long as that lasts! Peredhil drifts over to his usual table to wait his son's arrivals.

Peredhil doesn't see the esteemed Lore Master anywhere. For that matter, other Elders seem in short supply. Speaking of short, it sounds as if Lord Jakob, always good for reading and conversation, is in a quandary. And the lovely Morgane there also. With a sigh, Peredhil tries to think past his cold medicines. Erk. Clearing his throat, he tries again. Rereading the Quill Quest and the OOC in the Greenroom, this is my take on the Quest. Jechum can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'd dearly love to see y'all promoted, and I'll do my best to remove obstacles such as confusion. If you can follow what I mean. Waving his hands in vague circles to supplement his words, Peredhil plunges on. Given the dying nature of Archmage, Reincarnation from Hell, and therefore its Bulletin Boards, I decree that the Conservatory to which Jechum was referring is the one here, at the Pen site. That gives access to all Pen members (and visitors) who might wish to participate, and a single place for you to focus your efforts. It also ensure that the writing won't suddenly disappear into financial insolvency. Finding the required feather will be an adventure worthy of your talents as it is, with no other obstacles. So mote it be. Elder Elrond Peredhil

Yui-Temae: The child was suddenly not where he’d been, and it frightened him. Eyes wide, he turned from a view of a strange place - wavy grasses covering the landscape, interspersed by tall trees and shrubs here and there – to face a person. A man not like the old man with the kind eyes and the fuzzy beard. The man looked as puzzled as he did, and Graeson whimpered, a tiny sound in the back of his throat. It echoed eerily in the dreamscape, tightening his child’s nerves even further. "I do not know you." The man spoke gently, his frown one of confusion and not anger, as he crouched beside the frightened child in his dream. It was a moment of very strange clarity, one without the usual fleeting impressions and vague emotions. The boy blinked and swallowed, fighting back tears. "Where is my Mommy? I want to go back! I’ll never touch the loom again, I swear!" The fight was lost, and the trails of salty water that formed down his ruddy cheeks burned cold in the soft breeze of the dream-meadow. Graeson sobbed and covered his face, muffling his cries. "Please take me back! Please! Mommy!!" The Slave had wrapped his arms gently around the dream child before he even realized that he was moving, the need to comfort him a living thing within his chest. Rocking slowly, he crooned tiny words of comfort in the boy’s ears, words that he dimly recalled hearing from his Mother’s lips once so very long ago. " Sssss... Sssss... Daizyobu, yasui kodomo. Daizyobu..."* The strange language startled him as it flowed over his lips, as natural as a heartbeat to him. Mother’s language. The image of grey-green eyes filled with love and a warm, comforting embrace flashed through his thoughts, and the Slave shivered. Mother. Graeson’s sniffles brought the man back from wherever his mind had gone, and the meadow flicked back into solidarity from the swirling mass of mist it had become. The little boy squirmed until he was released, then stepped back to stare through misty eyes at the kind man. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t understand the words used, the comforting tone was enough to make clear their meaning. "You’re the white strand. I like you. My Mommy calls me Graeson, but it’s my Father’s name. Do you have a name?" The question brought the Slave up short. Of course he had a name... a name... What was it? A new Dream swam up around the boy and the man and carried them both along in its wake... ******* He is young, again. He stands beside father, as always, gazing up at the man with eyes full of love. Father is his light, strong and kind and loving and magnificent. When he grows, he will be just like father, and he will love someone just like mother, and he will love his son just as much. Father speaks, and he laughs happily, dancing away as the man reaches out to tickle him. The storm interrupts, rumbling in the distance, the wind rising around them both until father’s cloak whips like a silver-stitched shadow behind him. Mother’s voice reaches him across the wind, and he turns to see her standing nearby, all golden hair and warmth as she crouches and holds her arms open to him. Happiness beckons, and he turns back to father to take his hand. The charred remains give him a skeletal smile and reach towards him with blackened arms, and the child screams in fear and pain, frozen to the rainswept ground. He knows that he will be lost when the fingers brush him, but there is only weak emptiness where there should be strength to run and hide. Feet. Inches. Now a hair’s breadth separates him from his fate... The light that flares is blinding, and the child he is cowers. Sounds assault his ears, but the world is shadow. The storm lashes him with its fury, stinging his flesh, flaying it, but he cannot move. At last, silence, and the light fades, the storm eases. The child he once was opens his eyes to stare into his Mother’s loving face, her eyes bright as she whispers to him that he is safe, that she loves him. The Slave bolted from his bed with a gasp, his ears ringing as the last image from his dream danced before his eyes. That face... that face... The lines of age in the dream-mother's warm expression cannot cover her identity from his newly-opened eyes, and the young man shudders in dread. He saw again the unmistakable beauty of the woman in his Master’s clutches, and his stomach knotted. He knew her, now, this latest victim... his mother... Gulping air as if he’d just broken free from the clutches of some soul-deep waters, the Slave tucked this new knowledge into the deepest pocket of his mind. The time would come to do something, he knew, but it was not here yet. Instead, he calmed his breathing and glanced for the first time around his poor, rat-infested room, his eyes coming to rest on the child standing tensely in the corner. Strangely, he felt no surprise to see the dream child in his reality, and he heard himself whisper the answer little Graeson was seeking. "Ayden. My name is Ayden..." * [Translated from Japanese: "Shhh... Shhhh... It's okay, young child. It's all right."]