Peredhil

Peredhil opens the door to the Birthday Room and enters into Jonathon Wolfe's room. Laughing at himself for being silly, he steps back out, closes the door and reopens it thinking of Lyssara. The room is decorated with EverQuest scenes of Norrath, and various pieces of graphics artwork from Lyssara's website (with small attached price tags. A small stack of commission order forms are stacked neatly near the door. Peredhil puts up the Happy Birthday banners, liking to add a personal touch, and eyes the composition. After moving a few pieces to more pleasing places, he lights the everlast candles (which drip no annoying wax onto the cake), and softly sings happy birthday to the fill the waiting room with happiness and anticipation, then exits quietly to continue about his rounds...

[Nuncio]With Peredhil off busy as usual of late, Nuncio takes Jonathon's present to the Birthday Room and sighs unhappily as he sees no one there. I think this is a graphics computer," He says to the empty air, hoping one of the "now you see them, now you don't" residents is hanging about. At no reply, he wished he had his FDR to be sure. Clearing his throat, he continues, "Umm, Guido messed with it and so it already has a drawing on it, but the Boss said it could be used over and over." "I hope you know how to reboot it." With a frown making his whiskers droop, the Giant Guinea Pig carefully places the mystical red computer, brand name "Etch-a-Sketch", on the table. After singing Happy Birthday, he scurries out to prepare for the Fall Ball.[/Nuncio] [Peredhil] (Happy Birthday!) [/Peredhil]

[Peredhil]Peredhil pauses in the alcove before the doorway and checks himself in the mirror set there. Eyes the color of wet-ashes grey look back at him. Dolce & Gabbana sweater and slacks, Metzlan alligator shoes, all in shades to complement his Ring for those who could see it. His still black hair is neatly and freshly cut, thanks to Elladan, who has a way with blades. He misses his usual Armani or Calvin Kleins, but he wants to help set a casual tone to encourage mingling tonight. For the same purpose, he's ordered Guido and Nuncio not to accompany him for his entrance. The success of Ayshela's ball is important to him. With a nod to himself for luck, he opens the door and enters the room, as he has entered so many others over the centuries. The floor gleams so brightly as to recollect the stone before the throne of Manwe, and he's forgotten the frescos inset into the ceiling. He pauses in the doorway, a slender half-elf dressed in whites and greys, angled face looking upward. The bright light glint off his hair and shoes, and from habit he dons a pair of Gargoyle sunglasses to combat it. Moving with slow grace across the floor, he greets Ayshela, taking her hands and holding her at arms length to inspect her dress, before kneeling to kiss her hands. His assurances that she looks lovely, and tonight will be a success earn him a hug, at which a smile curves his lips. His is a mouth made for smiles, although they rarely reach the depths of his eyes. Politely he moves off to talk to the caterers and greet the band, freeing Ayshela to greet the next guest, but close enough for reassurance. As he mingles, he heals minor aches and pains from habit, subtly weaving a semblance of a spell to energize the night, and prevent sore feet. He really doesn't practice magic much any more. When he enters a new Plane, he carries the resonance and frequencies of the rest within him latent, and allows the new universe to sing its song to him. Once properly introduced, he's found that his small requests, which once required Mana and Will, often come to past on their own naturally. His acceptance of others extends to the inanimate, which rarely fails to respond. His are the powers of understanding, knowledge, and healing. It has been a long journey, he reflects quietly, from his birth in Gondolin on Middle Earth, through the Undying West, passing beyond the barriers of space and time to become a Planeswalker. A long journey, through thirty-two Planes, and myriad dimensions and worlds within them. Reaching out, seeing, in his inexplicable even to him, manner the patterns of life, unlife, and death in motion throughout the Pen, he realizes the Pen is the closest to a home he's found since he left Rivendale. Taking a sparkling water to sip, he waits on his bodyguards and boys to arrive.[/Peredhil] [Guido]"Iz lookin' sexy in dees new snazzy threads" is his first thought as he passes into the kitchen. The knowledge he's one sharp-dressed Giant Guinea Pig in his tuxedo and fedora puts an extra spring in the Bodyguard's step. "Should be a great gig, whot wit all da peoples. Da Boss will like dis, and wit all da peoples being Penners, dere isn't nutting to worry 'bout." At the thought, his large eyes darken momentarily and he runs through a mental check. Faerie Dragon Ring for anti-magic, his gat in his hide-away holster, the various knifes, garrotes, and other weapons of his profession. He and his brother Nuncio had been careless once, and lost the fairy they was guarding, Don T'mezzame, a Godfather in the mob, and been on the run since. If da Boss hadn't believed in them and taken them with him when he left the world of Fractured Fairy Tales, they'd've been fish-bait for sure. With the thought, he finishes checking the kitchen with unwanted care, and moves to see the main room. A mouth of teeth flashes pearly white as he sees da kids skating the floor clean and he moves to one of the subtly hidden observation spots to keep an eye on things until the Ball begins. He'd die before he lost another contract, and do more than die for dis Boss. He was kinda special. Nun' said da Boss saw hearts, whatever that meant. He just knew da Boos loved where others didn't, and that was a more powerful magic than he could ever understand. That's why he was here early, and what da Boss didn't know wouldn't stand a chance of hurting him.[/Guido]

Good use of showing instead of telling, if that makes sense. The character of the protangonist really comes through without a lot of self-description. Heh, I have a different King of Kings, but I can still appreciate something written well. -P

Oooh, I like. Some lessons in there I've learned the hard way, like "truth without love is destructive", or "a haughty look before a fall, and pride comes before destruction". When I think of how many times I've heard a hateful tongue rebuked and reply, oh so innocently, "But I was only telling the truth...", or have held onto doing things *my* way and being unwilling to admit I'd screwed up and needed to change or admit the need for help. Umm. Anyway - this struck a few resonating tones with me.

Meep! That's tonight! I need to figure out what to wear. The pigs, the boys! Remind Gyrfalcon to give Guido the Bartender the night off. And Waterlilly! And music! The musical pieces for each of us. So far I've only found lyrics for some. How did so much time pass when I've so much to do! Peredhil set off in a whirlwind of activity.

(Just as an OoC aside, I took extreme liberties with Annael. Heretofore, she was running around bare foot and didn't smoke. But I had this vivid mind picture of her standing, waiting in the shadowy alcove, the arching wings hinted at as a greater heart-shaped backdrop behind her. The sudden glow as she drew one last time on the cigarette lending its sullen red to highlight her angelic face from below, setting the crimson lipstick a shiny black and making red flecks in her ears. Then a falling star as the cigarette arched down, with the point of view coming in as it fell, so the final strike on the flagstones of the floor was like a meteor hitting, splashing fire. Point of view pulling outward and the black stilleto steel-tipped heel coming down to grind it out. Really symbolic fallen-angel stuff. Then the next image I had was just after I'd sent my love to let her know how I saw her and what I still saw within her - and the luminescent glow around her at the light hit. And stuff. Umm. So I hijacked the thread and changed her character.)

I like the one about seeing through the false mask. There are a lot of those out there. This last one is good too- in my world view, there is always hope.

one more quickly... I fondly remember my first 35mm camera. I was so attached to it I even named it. I called it "F. Stop Fitzgerald."

Since the French are famous for their snail eating activities, it reminded me of this one. The French will eat almost anything. A young cook decided that the French would enjoy feasting on rabbits and decided to raise rabbits in Paris and sell them to the finer restaurants in the city. He searched all over Paris seeking a suitable place to raise his rabbits. None could be found. Finally, an old priest at the cathedral said he could have a small area behind the rectory for his rabbits. He successfully raised a number of them, and when he went about Paris selling them, a restaurant owner asked him where he got such fresh rabbits. The young man replied, "I raise them myself, near the cathedral. In fact, I have ... a hutch back of Notre Dame."

I like it, but I'm a sucker for things that deal with/question the foundations of Identity. If you work this into a story, make sure you PM me and let me know so I don't miss it. -P

Peredhil wanders in to listen and finds himself confoozled. After Annael marches off, he poses some questions. ~~~ Approaching the Lore Master's Proclamation Throne, with the disembodied greenish giant head of Gwaihir floating above it, Peredhil stammers out his first question. Erm, Great and Wonderous Lore Master, Is there a description of the Treasure Chest? The flames roar and he leaps back as the Voice roars, "You dare to question the Great and Powerful Lore Master!" "Meep. I'm sorry. What Contest?" Again the flames roar and the ground shakes. The curtains ripple and reveal Gwaihir :wizzie: and several Wiggly :wigglycabbage: Cabbages working dials, levers, and footpedals wildly. "Ignore the Elf behind the Curtain! The Quill Bearer knows of which I speak! Get thee away, and your little dog too!" At this last, even the Wiggly :wigglycabbage: Cabbages stop their rippling and everyone looks at :wizzie: Gwaihir. "Little dog?" The flames roar wildly and Peredhil scampers off. ~~~ (Ooo! Ooo! I wanna write a pompous speech!!! Lemme try! :woot: ) "Annael, approach and stand before us." The Counsel of Elders sat in a semi-circle on the podium on ornate chairs, while Gwaihir stood before the center chair. On the center chair was a small placard bearing the words, "Out to lunch, play nicely kids - Ozy". The only light was a single overhead spotlight illuminating a place before the podium. Much of the Pen membership was gathered around the shadowy walls, standing as quietly as they could manage. The furious scratching of pens and pencils jotting down inspirations from this awesome event vied with shuffled feet, suppressed coughs and someone with whistle-nose. Annael quickly stubbed out her cigarette with one spiked heel and glided forward, her winds slightly spread to aid her balance as she walked. Her slightly tarnished halo was cocked rakishly and floated as always with no visible means of support, while her butterflies swirled nerviously around her. This was the first time the Pen had really tried to make a big deal of a Quill Quest since Jechum and his infamous Monty Python Bush ploy. As she passed the Ancients section just before the light, she sensed Peredhil gathering Will and letting something comparable to a spell flow toward her. If it had been anyone else, her defenses would've automatically engaged, but Peredhil. She should've smacked him she thought a moment later. His love and admiration, focused and accepted, clothed her with how *he* saw her just as she stepped into the light. She shone with a splendor she hadn't hadn't possessed since she'd fallen. Some of the more demonic spectators quickly put on dark glasses; with great restraint she managed to keep from rolling her eyes. The gleaming angelic robe suddenly fell gracefully with no ashes ground into the fabric. She knew without checking that her halo now gleamed burnished above her head. With an internal mixture of amusement and exasperation that usually accompanied her dealings with the Polite one, she stopped in the middle of the light. At least she wasn't nervous any more; the only butterflies were dancing, reflecting rainbows, in the light. "Annael, you come before us a Quill Bearer. When you applied for Initiate and were accepted, it showed your willingness to stand before our judgement for membership into the Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Your ability quickly made a place for you, and our judgement is ever tempered by the love we bear for the newly come to our community. "You became a Page, showing increased involvement in the Pen's unique culture, not only focusing on your works, but reaching out to help others through comments and participation. "As Quill Bearer, you demonstrated did all that you'd done before, and showed by your words and deeds that you understood and embraced the essence which makes the Pen is Mightier than the Sword slightly different than any other place, that unheard vibration which connects us all and cannot be adequately describe or listed. A long pause. She was beginning to sweat a bit under the light, although according to the old saw, ladies "glowed". She suppressed a smile at the thought, and wished suddenly for another cigarette. "Now you stand before us ready to take the final step to membership. The Quill Quest is not a reward for past behavior, but rather a recognition of your potential and affirmation of our trust in you for future decisions. As a full member you will have not only a say, but a vote in our future. As a full member, we will count on your support in helping the Pen to change with the times, while keeping the spirit of traditions past." "Annael, do you accept this responsibility?" Suddenly the silly ceremony wasn't so silly any more. She was pledging to the Pen a willingness to help it survive, to contribute to the running of its future, not just dipping in to post or sip the nectar of other's works. As a member, she'd have more power than someone who was an Ancient, like Peredhil or Arawn, with her ability to vote. She felt a sudden longing for a cigarette and hoped her dry mouth wouldn't stumble. "I accept this responsibility." "Then know this Quill Bearer. The Quill Quest is your graduate work, a gift to the Pen. In its essence, it is designed to help build the Pen in some way. We call it a gift because leadership is always a gift of service, not a right or affirmation of ego." She finally nodded as the pause grew uncomfortable. Apparently it was the right response for Gwaihir, no, the Acting Lore Master, continued. "Annael Quill Bearer. Your Quest is to delve into the Elder's Treasure Box, and from the raw energies of creative chaos contained therein, draw forth an Item. Once you have an Item, you must discern its properties, abilities, and attributes and present your findings to the Membership of the Pen. Only then will you be a Full Member. Beware, for if you falter, you may be burned by the inspirations with reside in this artifact. Greed, Selfishness, put these from your heart before you reach, lest your ambition exceed your grasp!" This last was delivered in majestic tonality, spoiled only slightly by the Elder Wyvern's muttered, "My tail smoldered for a WEEK." Resplendent in the light, lit as she was by love, she trusted not her dry throat to respond. Annael clicked her heels, saluted and marched off to the Treasurebox with her butterflies marching on air behind her. ~~~ :zorro

From all the lands of Terra, a movement was stirring. The great Devil Prince Mari had been summoned and looked to never leave after this, the Final Reset Armageddon. Tangental interactions with Mari heretofor had led to disaster. Full presence threatened to disrupt forever the eternal cycle of those Magi fated to eternally fit, die, and reincarnate to fight again. In some places, changes ensued. The Legion of the White Rose, dressed entirely in S.W.A.T. suits and shouting "hut, hut, hut, hut" the entire time, swarmed, scrambled, opened a large portal and relocated enmass away from Terra to Norrath, incidently absorbing anyone visiting their fabled Tavern at the time, as they took not only Magi but the entire Legion multi-keep complex. And in towers, keeps, donjons, dojos, citidels, jails, and other places of power, all over Terra, Ultima Thule, and points beyond, Members of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword felt a pulse from the Pens they'd received on becoming Initiates. Given in a handsome decorator case, up to now they'd been cherished momentos and badges of pride (or shame). The Pen! Cutting across the allegiences of all Guilds, Alliances, or Cliches! Haven for some, annoyance for others, it had a compelling reality and all around niceness unlike quite anywhere else. If nothing else, it was a break from the Magical and Mundane, and eternal warfare of Terra. The Pens pulsed. Nearly every one pulled out their secret decoder-rings. (Some people had had the good taste to throw the cheap plastic rings away) Spinning the dials they deciphered the pulses. "mplexphraclingniffle?" As this made no sense at all, they, each in their own way sent messages to the Pen Keep, and received the answer. Mari would destroy all, not just Terra, but the Eternal Universal Bulletin Boards on which the spirits of Magi waiting to reencarnate, the Magi present, and, well, heck, just about anyone of any worth at all (and several of no worth whatsoever) hung about, would be destroyed. The leaders of the Pen, and I use the term loosely, somewhat in the way you'd call a school of fish in front of a pack of cats the leaders of the cats, determined that the small Myfamily home wouldn't hold everyone at once. LoreMaster Jechum set off to secure larger facilities at the cheap but annoying Ezboard, wresting a Tower and adjoining lands from its primoreal chaos while the War Leader Lumpenproletariat was dispatched to organize the fighting retreat. As the Pen as a whole were writers, not organized fighters, the Exodus was a mess. This is its story...

The Giant Guinea Pig Bodyguards, Guido and Nuncio, burst in on the scene. Grabbing Peredhil without hesitation, they seize him and, shielding his fashion disaster body from view behind their own bodies (stylishly turnout out in black wide-lapel tailored tuxedos with black-banded fedoras), the hustle him from the room. A trailing "happy birthdaaaay" is heard from the half-elf as his bodyguards "save" him. On their way out, a mist whips itself into a frenzy around his body, and he's neatly clothes in suitable natty suit. A small Breeze spell, high cold and arching with precision, carries Gyrfalcon's cloak in a parabola to land near the Elder. Blue Runes flash for a moment before fading away: Thank you

The Birthday Room (newly built addition to the Cabaret since the clean-up crews from Wyvern's Bardic coming-out party still haven't finished) is decorated as a gently undulating savannah, a greenish-brown veldtland as far as the optically deluded eye can see. In the immediate area, the grass has been cropped short by giraffes specially imported the month before (about the same time as Madame Quixotic's arrival), who are now moving away. Several large sturdy wooden tables with attached seat-benches are arranged ergomically for the party. Peredhil is listening to Wyvern, who has ducked in to "help", although his help consists of a constant stream of one-sided conversation, and occasionally peering through the door to ensure whomever he's avoiding *this* time hasn't found him. "I think she'll be pleasantly surprised by the party" Peredhil confides. "sno homeish" Comes the hissing distracted reply; there is movement in the Cabaret. "Beg pardon?" Peredhil has to stop at that one. Wyvern turns and repeats more slowly. "Its no homies." At Peredhil's still furrowed brow, he translates, "She's from a cold Northern climate. This African scene isn't going to be what she's used to having at this time of year. it's not homey. Peredhil nods brightly, and as Wyvern turns back to the door, lets his face fade back into confusion. Wasn't the North West at the moment in it's Fall colors and raining twelve of every fourteen days? He'd thought she'd *want* something dry! With the banners and canopies set to display the birthday wishes and keep the sun off, bottles of sun block SPF 45 and an arrangement of beverages arrayed. Peredhil leaves to get the cake. Seconds later, Wyvern, hearing a lion cough, jumps out into the Cabaret. What was it with Peredhil and his realism thang!!! (Happy Birthday!)

Hoots, w00ts, cheers, whistles and stomps his feet. Hoo-ah! Any time you get published is a good time! That's wonderfully greatly magnificent. Couldn't happen to a nicer dream-lost poet.

Oh this is *good*. It is HARD to be truly naked and honest in poetry. It's the difference between being a skilled writer and poet, and the potential to be a great one, in my opinion.

When the rhythmns of body and day Reach their nadir Then you need help now And not later Lending truth to the old saw Darkest night before the dawn When the demon beasts of past seem won Seek the warmth of friends.

Peredhil whispers, "wow..."

Sitting back in his leather chair, Elrond awaited the next patient. The door opened and the man standing slightly to one side of it waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light before he entered. His hesitation at the entrance for the quick flick of eyes which assessed the room in an instant. Elrond in turn noted the darting eyes, the slight jitter of hands. As the man crossed silently and took the chair placed back to the wall with a view of Elrond, the door, and the one window, Elrond smiled to himself. As usual with cases of this type, this man would probably blend into the crowd as a habit, hoping to draw no potentially lethal attention - but emotionally lament never being noticed. He didn't bother to offer shaking hands. Smoothing the knife-sharp crease on his Armani slacks, he sat patiently, centering himself and becoming still. Subtly but visibly matching his breathing to the man's he allowed his breathing to slow gradually. When the hands ceased moving restlessly, he allowed himself a slight smile, knowing that it would be detected. The man frowned and his eyes rapidly dialated and then contracted. "Why I am paying you for silence?" "You're paying me to help you reintegrate the shards of a broken personality." And the day began.

*This* was a fun read! I shouldn't be laughing at such blatant disregard of law... But this is just too good not to enjoy.

Wow, I'm glad I was going back through the page - I found this gem. I think it would be hard to write from the viewpoint of a fallen angel (and not the type in barroom pickup lines), but you pulled it off here. The celebration of love found after falling - then the final contrast summation, really hit me with the power contained in the right to choose.

A marvelous farewell, with the seeds of tomorrow's hellos waiting.

As I said in IRC, I really like this. The only possible flyspeck on this shining work is: in which I would change the verbs to match the past tense, ie: clot to clotted, and fill to filled. It's great to see you posting again.

You vocalized the feeling behind Mine! really well, as everyone has said. I like the humor that I see in Midnight'. I hope you intended it to be funny! But I have a graveyard sense of humor at times anyway. In The Voices, You captured much of the way I feel about logging into my email account and finding legitimate messages have been bouncing because of the spam count. Really enjoyable reading. Thank you!