Peredhil

Peredhil hugs Zool Good points! It IS important to keep the balance between individual and system. I'd submit that while traditions are important and worthy of respect (for they encapsulate the lessons and wisdoms of prior generations of humanity), they must be evaluated anew every generation for current validity. Otherwise they become vain traditions, traps to the past that fetter and shackle instead of guiding and enhancing. Peredhil turns Yes Imposter, it was inspired by some recent events here at the Pen. In brief, a Pen Member was transcribing a thread from the Conservatory to our Library. It contains writing from many many of the Pen membership in the thread, quality writing. The Member has a Real Life relationship with a non-Pen member. The non-Pen member, unable to emotionally accept the difference between Real Life and Role-Played characters, created such a disturbance that the thread has been deleted on request of of it's transcriber. This saddened me greatly and was the seed which led to the genesis of the thoughts above, the dynamic tensions between individuals and groups of individuals.

In all instances of human affairs, there is a dynamic tension between Self and Society. The crux of the matter revolves around a matter of rights and implementations. When an individual is absolutely alone, there is a premium of Self. All that they do is seen by only one person. All they say is heard by one person. All they think influences that same person - themself. Yet it is a part of Humanity to seek the company of others. We have a herd ungulant mentality. Solitary Confinement is considered a punishment for this reason. Yes, being solitary is a necessity, retreating within one's self to rest and recuperate. But even the harshest curmudgeon after a bit begins to seek out other people. Whether through presence, writing, telephones, creating works of art for posterity, the NEED to communicate and have the message received in embedded within. So individuality become collective or the individual begins to die within. And this forms Society - the moral and mores of interactions of individuals. The imprecise definitions of right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate that govern all individuals as they interact with others. The strictures of Society vary widely, and so I will not get caught up in details and hair-splitting at this point. I will note the pattern which governs these strictures however is in a dynamic tension. There is a thin social line that separates the polar opposites that wavers in every situation, that redefines with each addition or loss of a person. Thus what is appropriate to say in a sports locker room might be inappropriate to say in a family dining setting. This extends to actions as well. Cutting someone deeply with a sharp blade might be a Good thing if done by a surgeon seeking to restore health, but a Bad thing if done on a street corner by the same surgeon seeking revenge on a fancied slight. Society and Self. Because each individual IS individual, an ideal Society will cherish, nourish, and affirm the rights of each individual to grow and attain their personal best. In turn, each Self-willed individual gives up a bit of freedom to the society so that all may fit together better. That I may grow, I give up my right to murder. That I may have protection from fire, I give up a small portion of my monies to support a local government. If we liken the whole of a segment of Society, perhaps an organization, to a body, we see that the Selves are cells. Each brings something different to the body, a unique contribution, yet works in concert for the good of all, nourishing and being nourished. A new cell may require extra resources to grow to the point where it can produce. A damaged cell may require extra resources to heal to the same point. But a healthy cell which puts it's needs above the others, that clings to its baby days, becomes tumorous. And if the other healthy cells with which it communicates give up producing and continue to draw on the resources, then there is a tumor, dragging down the entire body. If the selfish cells begin attacking others, then they become a cancer and the body is doomed to die unless they are stopped in someway. In this instance, consider the healthy cells, trying to hold onto body integrity, trying to produce and heal. If they cannot distinguish between the young or damaged and the healthy but selfish cells, they end up sucked dry of ability and either die to the body (leave), or become damaged and unable to produce (giving up), or become cancerous in turn (selfish and taking). At one extreme of Selfishness, we have the clarion call of personal rights, of individualism, of "You must do it my way because my pain is more Real than yours because I feel it". At the other extreme of Selflessness, we have many possibilities from Doormat to a Holy person (the Gandi, Christ, Buddha, Mohammed of the world). The Mighty Pen is a Literary Society. It exists that we may nourish one another and grow. That we may take those creative souls, hurt by the world, and help them to heal. That we may take those with potential, and give them a place to grow. But all in turn must realize that if they don't give, if they don't nourish others, if they don't produce tolerance and put aside selfishness in consideration. This Society will die.

As an Out Of Character note, I'm going to crash your thread. Bows to Wyvern apologetically. I really enjoy your poetry Falcon - you have great potential. Many of your comments reflect the insecurity that so many intelligent creatives share - seems to be endemic to the majority. A few points to ponder: - if you act confident (not strident, but confident), often people will consider you to be what you seem. -With a talent like yours, let it speak for you. Then when the applause rolls in, as it will, don't tell the people that they're wrong. Just because you're good enough to envision the perfection you missed, doesn't mean it wasn't good or even great. A simple thank you is enough, a forced smile is with it is even better. If you tell people who compliment you how wrong they are, because of how YOU feel, you are in essence telling them that they were stupid for liking it in the first place. This is a sure-fire way to ensure all your compliments dry up quickly. Almost as good as criticizing your work before they have a chance to do so. (It doesn't 'suck' in my opinion. Peredhil mouths the quoted word distastefully as he says it, as he finds it a non-Polite term.) -As an Initiate, you as being considered for membership. This means to many, what you do or say will reflect on the Pen as well. On the good side of things, you aren't alone. On the other side, good Manners demand that you pause and consider the effects and affects of your words and actions on others (us) as well as yourself. Things that mightn't matter to you matter to others. -Sometimes one must be a friend to gain a friend, and friendship requires time, effort, tolerance, and above all, acceptance. Welcome. Hoping he wasn't out of line and that this will be accepted in the gentle spirit in which it was intended, Peredhil bows and exits.

The other three sites are obsolete. Pay them no mind please. This Old Ezboard site is advertisement free - neither banners or pop-ups. Donations to the community chest are what enabled Jechum to buy the ads off. He payed for the first round, and I've donated the second. We feel pop-up ads detract from the creative experience. Thank you for your questions and interest. Elder Elrond Peredhil, 31

Cerulean, whatever misfortunes you suffer, whatever pains you've endured, you're ability to wag them into whimsical tales of painful humor and tear-wrenching mirth are no less than marvelous. Thank you Desert Union Jill. Peredhil

After a timeless moment, the hug relaxed to a loose grip. His father's was deep and difficult, occasionally catching and checking in a sob, then gusting in a racking sigh. Finally his father rose, effortlessly lifting his slight body with him. Holding him astraddle one hip, almost absently, his father braced his feet apart, squared his shoulders bravely and drew a deep deep breath. He expected a shout rather than the whisper that trickled regretfully from his father's lips. "Mordecia. I'm sorry. You were right. Please come." The Voices gave a Shout and snatching his words, fled away. He clung to Father in a state of shock. An apology? This was a night of world-twisting events. He'd been carried into the house without realizing it. Once he was under the warmth of the comforter, he began shaking with a suddenly realized cold. As he softened and warmed, sleep overtook him suddenly. It was three days later that the Man without a Hat walked out of the wood's edge and stopped to watch them work the fields, bringing the Voices with him.

From his spot under the punishing pile of papers, Peredhil realizes with chagrin that Wyvern is, in this instance, correct. Peredhil has indeed abrogated his authority to pursue Initiates for the Pen. He considers pushing the pressing papers aside and Politely apologizing, but seeing the predatory gleam in Wyvern's eye, settles back to ensure the greedy Elder doesn't attempt to fleece the newest arrival.

Peredhil rubs his hands briskly together and removes his sunglasses. . A question! Mine! Mine! Turning to address Gaelen, he bows pendantically. Greetings and welcome to the Pen is Mightier than the Sword. To apply, you would write an introductory Role Played story or scenario such as the ones you'll find in this Recruiting area. A submission of your craft, writing, poetry, Role Playing, etc will greatly facillitate the process. If accepted as Initiate, it means that we recognize you as someone we're considering for membership. Participation and quality in the public areas will speed you to Page status, and then on to Quill Bearer. Reading the Codex and the Lists will give you greater insight into the common culture which we're attempting to create. Peredhil pauses and collects his thoughts, rubbing his lips with a slender finger. Ah! The UBB, now known as the ABB, is the Universal Bulletin Board (changed to the Archmage Bulletin Board). It is the literary support area, called the Forum, to the online game, Archmage: Reincarnation from Hell, available at www.magewar.com While the game is so-so, the collection of intelligent creative talent it attracts is rather astounding to me. Welcome! And again welcome! Elrond Peredhil, 31 Elder of Manners and Lists, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword.

She sleeps alone Curled against the pain Of lonliness, of heart scalded by Perceived neglects Small body in too large bed. The phone rings A click and whir The tape moves and records The voice she'd know But she sleeps. A small body in too large bed The red light blinks it's signal Trying to wake her To its urgency What does it say?

He lay there for a long while, feeling the chill of the ground seep into his body, matching the cold that'd invaded his heart. Watching his father cry in silent heaving sobs that made his face blotchy red and his nose run. Finally, he dared to move. Reaching out tentative hand, he asked with great daring, "Da?" Father slapped his hand away, and with it the memories of a thousand rejections from the last two years slammed up into his throat; he couldn't breath for a long moment. Then his Daddy swept him up into his arms and held onto him fiercely. He could feel the snot from his nose drip onto his hair, the tight pressure of his work-hardened arms making his ribs crack. He wished he'd never let him go.

open OoC Comment The Player behind Peredhil bows his head for a moment in memory of HIS first read of the Hitchhiker's five book trilogy. He had to read each one individually, waiting for the next to be published. What a genius! If I could write with such creativity humor and flair - I still wouldn't be Douglas Adams. May he rest in peace. Oh - the Pen's Loremaster, Jechum, is also an international towel salesman - get your towel before Armageddon! close OoC comment

Peredhil triggers the set spell in his Ring which allows Shadow-sight and Illusion-seeing, (usually reserved for Yui or Jechum!) and prepares to greet his friends. He's rather taken back when it is Stale that appears! M'Lord! I think we've met in Army of Darkness's Chat room... Peredhil bows Please, wander the Halls of the Pen and look around. I hope you'll find you've found a home away from home. The corridor in which you're currently standing leads to our Elder of Initiate's office. When you've decided you might want to join our literary guild, I hope you'll make your way there and fill out an application. Narrowing his eyes at a sudden memory, he continues Oh, and don't let him clip you for too much geld. He's very good at what he does, but he tends to be a greedy fellow.... Again, welcome to the Pen!

Peredhil hears enchanting rhyme, but looking around sees no one.

Mother sneaked out in the chill pre-dawn mornings to put flowers with trembling hands on the grave. Sister no longer played on that side of the house. Father ignored the weathered mound. It was the only place the Voices wouldn't speak - and that had long frightened him more than anything else. They arrived. Father threw him at the grave. The sweet smell of decaying flowers rose up and choked his nostrils, forcing an explosive sneeze. He cried out at the sound and and scrambled to his feet, the Vision of bony hands with strands of tough rotting flesh thrusting through the soil to grasp - Father slammed him back down with a slap. "Lie there damn you!" His fierce whisper whipped harder than a fresh-cut stick. "Did you even THINK of your Mother when you opened that door? Did you remember the things that come out at night? Did you think your VOICES would save you?" His look combined rage with pity. "You think I didn't know?" His voice was suddenly a shout, a torn cry from the heart, which pressed him back into the clammy soil. "WHAT DO YOU THINK KILLED YOUR BROTHER!"

He froze. His father slowly rolled to a sitting position, and then thrust himself erect with a grunt, never taking his eyes away. He found himself pressing back against the door without remembering having moved. He quit looking at his father's eyes, which told him nothing, and watched his hands warily. He coolly estimated Father wouldn't kick when barefoot. He felt his lip curl in helpless defiance as his father approached. It would be a victory of sorts not to move, to prove that he could not flinch even though he was weak and small. It was with some surprise and consternation that he realized Father wasn't going to hit him. He moved silently to the side and watched as his father untied and opened the door. Would he be exiled? Thrust into the night. He felt his breath catch in a sob as the thought of being thrust into the night hit his emotions harder than any fist. Father passed through the door and into the night. A moment later, Father reached back through and yanked him through the door. Father dragged him without malice, feet bouncing every few feet as he tried to walk, feeling helpless in Father's grasp. He trembled with terror as their destination came clear. His Brother's grave.

Welcome Dragcor! Peredhil points to the door at the rear of the room, over which a sign is posted, which reads, "Abandon all Geld, all ye who enter here!" "If you go through that door (ignore the turnstile) and down the hallway, the door at the end opens into the Recruiter's Secretary's Office. I think the sexual harassment charges are still pending, so don't bother knocking, just go in." "On the other side of that room is another door. The Recruiter's office. You post your application there , such as an example of your writing, or sing a song or such. The Recruiter will look it over and determine if you're ready to be an Initiate. "If yes, then put Initiate of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword in any prose or songs or such you wish considered for membership here. "If you post here, it's easier for us to keep up with you, but if you post at Archmage, it's still alright. "After a reasonable sampling to show your potential to us, we'll make you a Page and send you the Secret Signs, Passwords, and a secret decoder ring. Or something like that. " "But it all begins behind that door..."

Pulling a split log from the stack by the fire over to the door, he stood on it and worked the laces and thongs. Once untied, he was able to pull on the strings to move the bars. Easing the door open the slightest crack, he slipped through. He had a sudden vision of himself, dirty-white nightgown outlined against the dark wood, a ghost in the night. The idea of being a ghost raised a smile to his lips, quickly extinguished. A ghost or a target. He quickly moved across the yard, walking carefully and lightly. Grabbing the slimy water bucket he drag-thumped it across the ground to the field. The little water in it sloshed and swirled, rendering it off-balance and nearly too heavy for him to move. He had no time to hate his weakness, he had to hurry. The cracked door condemned him every moment he was outside. The air was chill and without motion. No Voices broke the silence; as he made his way even the birds and insects stilled their voices. He felt the heavy earth below him and the high moon above. All the world seemed still and watchful, waiting on him. Thump-slosh. Thump-slosh. Thump-slosh. At last he was in position. With a pristine clarity he saw the dark lines of the rows, all crooked except one. The seed bag lay discarded off to the side; he'd have to hang it up when he finished or Sister would be beaten again for carelessness. He realized he was stalling. Taking the ladle, he filled it. Summoning all his will, focusing his need, he slung it out over the field. Nothing happened. The dark streak soon faded into the sunwashed white of the stripped earth. He considered crying in disappointment, or frustration, or rage, but couldn't decided which he felt, and instead fell silent inside. "Please?" he whispered to the Voices. "Please come back?" He dipped the ladle, feeling it scrap across the slimed bottom of the bucket. Trying to feel the thirst of the soil, the feel of water on a parched throat, he flung the water out in a moonlit arc and commanded, "Row!" The soil rippled silently and his heart sung. The voices began singing triumphantly, softly and low not to distract him as he repeated the motion and the command until he was out of water and flushed with victory. The field was nearly completely plowed, even straight rows, waiting for seed. Moving the empty bucket back to the pump was easier. He even remembered to pick up the bag of seeds and hang it. He slipped back inside and secured the door, buoyed by the softly singing support of the Voices, reveling in their sudden harmony. He dragged his wooden 'stool' back over to the pile of firewood. He felt comfortably tired now. He could sleep. Turning to the bed, he saw his Father's eyes open, watching him.

Lying in bed later, he couldn't sleep. His hands throbbed, as did his head. The blanket was too hot on his sunburnt skin, but he felt like he was freezing when he threw off the covers. Mother's snore competed comfortable with Father's buzzing breaths. Sister's breath was quick and fast, like a bird or the frightened rabbit he'd once held. He remembered the look in its slotted eye, the feel of its heart beating so rapidly against his hands it had tickled. He remembered he'd cried when his Father had killed it, one more bit of meat to add to the pot. He'd eaten it anyway. It was dead and he had to live. But he remembered and cherished the feel of the soft fur on his hands as he'd eaten. His head hurt. He slipped out of bed, his nightgown dusting the floor as he padded on bare feet over to the night pot. Water out. Water in. He slipped over and let the cold water trickle in drips down his throat. Too fast and his head would hurt more. Too slow and he'd choke, mistiming the breathing. Reluctantly he viewed the large bed. The Voices had been quiet the rest of the day. Father had worked in stony silence, not even beating them when they started taking more and more breaks. He'd even played Sticks and Stones with Sister, letting her capture his sticks two games in a row, just to see her laugh. He brooded over the rest of the day, finally realizing why he couldn't sleep. With a sigh a falling feather sigh, light and long, he moved over to the door. Peering through the rough cracks, he carefully eyed the yard outside. Several minutes passed yet he hesitated. Finally he shrugged. If wolves, bears, or bandits came through the open door, they'd hopefully kill everyone and he wouldn't get in trouble. Or so he hoped. 'Cause if Father found he'd opened the door at night, he'd kill him for sure. Edited by: peredhil31 at: 11/20/02 7:01:30 am

Nuncio gazed down at the pair and their shrubbery with a toothy smile. Squirrels. Bearing Yui Temae's Quillbearer's Quest Shrubbery. Of course the delicately demure but rebel Yui would find a novel solution to her Quest. As Nuncio stood staring at them, the squirrels continued to look hopefully back up at him. The six foot two inch Giant Guinea Pig was sharply turned out in a black tailored suit with narrow grey lapels. He wore a black fedora with grey silk band on his closely cropped blond wig. He had an impressive amount of teeth. "Uh, Shrubbery? Yui Imp? Inside?" Lewis prompted the obviously slow rodent with little words. With a slow smile, Nuncio opened the door widely, spilling the crazy rhombus glow of the lanterns' light out into the courtyard. "Oh please do come in." Nuncio stepped aside and made small urging motions with his clawed hands. "You'll want to take the Shrubbery back through that door to the right to the Elder of Initiates room." "Ignore the sign asking for a geld - the turnstile turns without it." As the squirrels took up their burden and started off across the room, Nuncio stood laughing silently behind them. This is JUST what the overly serious Pen needed in HIS opinion! Wait until he told Guildo! A thought occurred to him in his humor. "Guys?" He called softly after them as they disappeared back to the Recruitment office, "Do Wyvern's eat squirrels?"

Peredhil finds himself near a computer in Boise, but is about to be wisked away back to Lewiston and cannot write more than a frustrated growl. Grrr.

Peredhil staggers in from the Wilds of Idaho, frenzied with Internet withdrawal, and holds - just holds - Cheyenne tenderly. With a gentle kiss on her forehead, he breaks away and heads back out into the Lands of little-to-no-communication. I've MISSED you! You are brave enough to say what you feel rather than hiding behind a thousand dazzling words. Better than a cool drink on a hot day.

To clear up confusion... You're already an Initiate on the Lists, accepted and cherished M'dear. A few more posts like those I've seen already and you'll be a Page post haste - Page is where you get the password to the Athenaeum. Probably the largest delay isn't anything to do with you, but that this incarnation of the Pen is carefully trying to find a sense of balance and therefore moving more slowly than any of us would wish. Your patience and grace is as appreciated as always. Peredhil tries to arrange a sad puppy-dog look on his face, but the mischevious glint in his eyes belays it. You don't miss dancing with me too? Elrond Peredhil, 31

There is a high pitched yelp from offcamera. The Policemen pause momentarily with expressions of nausea and unease on their faces, then grimly continue in pursuit. Man #2: Looking off camera "Oh dear, Phil's gotten his hands on a feather duster again." He sprints off in hot pursuit. Cut to: An Indian Maid stands on a slight pedestal. Her long black hair is bound back with an ivory filagree comb, the colored dot on her forehead indicates high cast. She wears the finest of gauzy cotton clothes. She gazes impassively off into the air in front of her. Before her kneels a fineboned Indian man, in the clothes of a tradesman, with hands outstretched toward the maiden. He is singing... Man: "My mind is back behind my eyes." Maid: "You sing like a wounded rhinocerous." Man: skootching on knees more to her front. "And there before me sits a butterfly" Maid: "Go bury yourself in an anthill." Man: "And as I watch she gently cries." Maid: "You make me cry!" Man: "Can there be anyone to pity her?" Maid: "If they heard your singing they would." Man: "How many places, have all of you seen?" Maid: wistfully "Only the inside of the Taj Mahal" Man: "If I were a King, she'd be my Queen." Maid: "You'd sing better dressed as a Queen." The man continues singing as a stout red-faced man dressed as a Canadian Lumberjack marches in from stage left and reaching centerstage, faces the camera. Tucking his thumbs behind his suspenders, he braces himself and begins to sing. "I've gots two legs from ma hips to the ground and, When I moves 'em they walks around and, When I lifts 'em they climbs the stairs and, When I shaves 'em they ain't gots hairs!" In the background the Indians have stopped their peculiar exchange and are staring in horror at the Lumberjack. Indian Man: "Hey! You can't just come in here and start singing!" The Maiden pulls a gun and shoots the Lumberjack before he can start the chorus. The Man leaps to his feet and swoons into her arms. Picking him up, she tenderly carries him off stage - stageright. cut to: (Indian Male song: King and Queen, from Moody Blues Caught Live + 5, artist: Moody Blues) (Lumberjack song verse from Monty Python's Flying Circus a long long time ago (I heard it on a pocket recorder in 1975)

Music pauses, Scene cut to: A man dress in a scuba wet-suit and flippers, wearing a tuxedo coat and top hat. Raising his monocular diving mask, he announces, "And now for something completely different -" As he takes a breath to continue, a large bucket of water is thrown against his face, drenching him and knocking him backward. Cut to animation of man falling off a cliff. A Large Puce Dragon catches him and carries him off to its nest. Many paintings and statues peek and peer from amidst the logs of which the nest is comprised. Cut to:

Peredhil cheers Wyvern as he does exactly as he'd hoped. And that sensitivity and tact, folks, is why we made Wyvern the Elder of Initiates! Plus for some reason the Coffers are never empty of geld since he took over...