Zadown

“Let me speed past the days that followed, then, for during them nothing worth committing to that immortal memory of your happened. Our army of Kalash grew, as did our trepidation that we'd be too late if we would tarry overly long in that desolate place. Those days saw Earl Vrean uncharacteristically sombre and silent despite his great deed in the Art – perhaps he was beset upon the melancholy that can strike a man down after his finest hour, knowing that there will be no other moment as glorious, who knows? I do not claim to be quite that familiar with the machinations of the undying minds, even if I have spent much time with the Earl and his acquaintances. When our first brigade was ready, rows upon rows of metal soldiers, their psionic blades hissing with baleful energies, their shining eyes lighting up the gloomy world – a view both thrilling and terrifying, something that the world had not met before – we decided it would be better to bring that limited number of warriors to the fight than wait and arrive too late with a larger number of them. This time as we marched through the Lost Paths, we did not fear any intimidating things lurking in the black night between the pearly worlds, for those walked besides us, eyes and blades afire. I am weary of war and tales of it, Lord Planewalker, so you shall have to excuse me if I leave gaps in my narration as my story reaches the end battles of the Reconstruction Wars. For we were there in time for them, and indeed it was the Kalash after which the wars were named, later when the overall picture grew vaster and clearer for those who pursue knowledge of things that will be written in the huge and ever growing tomes of History. Our first brigade performed with a resiliency, tenacity and tactical acumen we had perhaps hoped for in our unrealistic daydreams but were not accustomed of seeing in the battlefield, easily eclipsing all the numerous earlier works of Earl Vrean. In one of their first encounters, they even managed to overwhelm and defeat all the way to the last, permanent Death a minor planewalker captain of Chaos, a deed that was almost unheard-of. Even planewalkers and gods rarely managed to kill each other with their vast powers and aeons-old artefact weapons, so to have mere underlings to perform such a feat intensified the already searing flames of war as Chaos sought to smash such abominations and Law to protect them. And so a war about something else entirely turned into a war about tools of war.” The storyteller sighed and took a sip of wine, his voice now perceptibly wearier than it had been in the beginning. “Even if my part in the creation of the Kalash was minor, I still do not relish describing the havoc they wrought, no matter it was upon our ancient enemy Chaos. For every struck blow we dealt, we were struck in response, previously unseen numbers of demons flocking to counter the threat of our metal warriors. Some of them, unruly warriors as they are, broke free from their chains and further spread purposeless destruction around the two huge armies locked in immortal combat. The war grew closer to the deadlocked balance of power they had been at previously, though now it was deadlocked at a magnitude of far greater violence, hate and atrocity than before. Engagements that would usually end up in orderly retreat of one side turned into massacres instead, the Chaos planewalker killed by Kalash ending up only as the first of many undying victims of the continuing clashes. When the second brigade of Kalash joined the fray, Law quickly seized the upper hand and won a decisive victory at the Battle of the Three Spears, the two titans wrestling ineffectively turning into a hunter and a hunted, the armies of Chaos trying desperately to regroup but suffering a bloody defeats at the Battle of Kh'Vael and Battle of Twelve Dead. The Battle of the Hunter seemed to head towards the end of the field armies of Chaos, but an avatar of War appeared and shred up the vanguard of the Law while Chaos retreated, only to vanish later. Now, I am aware these dry lists of battles fought seem meaningless, but here is one of the critical points of my rambling tale. So, we have the army of Law, magnificent and eager to finally tilt the huge scales of Balance to their favor and to end the eternal strife. Dozens of planewalker captains, the radiant solars and dominions acting as their heralds and lieutenants, the rows upon rows of archangels and angels and the force deadly-looking Kalash, then already three brigades large. It was as if there had been a white wall stretching from infinity to infinity, all sharp steel and reflecting shields, polished armours and bright helmets. Facing this wall of Order a short gap of black velvet of the Void, and then the beaten back armies of Chaos, a fiery river cutting the sky in half, too far to make out the details but close enough for us to feel their taint in the aether. Assuming you have followed my words, what you see with your imagination, Lord Planewalker, is the opening arrangement of the Battle of the Betrayal, the last large battle of the Reconstruction Wars.”

Ooo great stuff, all. And now we finally have a comprehensive and clear picture of why Peredhil is always so busy!

Somebody, somewhere, in the long-forgotten first post, was talking something about generic ninjas and pirates ... but as nobody seems to care, carry on! Don't forget the Nuclear-Powered Elite Alien Brain-Eating Did-I-Mention-Alien Squid-Faced Super Elite Ninja-Pirates while yer at it.

Pleasure's all mine - I like the poem, even if I can't help with the technicalities of it. Encore! Encore!

Lately I've been reading the newest poems in Pen - given that I'm a poor reader online, I figured I might be able to muster the concentration as long as the stuff I have to read is short. After going through quite a few, I can say that although many of them are great and thought-provoking, there's an area of poetry that from my point of view seems to be greatly under-represented: poems that deal with the ordinary life, the things we see and hear and do during the normal course of our lives. The few ones I've seen (Wyvern's Observations and Cerulean's poetry come to mind) I remember better than most others I've read. For each of us our own lives may seem too mundane, too insignificant to warrant forming visions of them into poetic shapes, but one's mundane is another's exotic; and there is beauty in both. Not to mention therein lies more variation than in the inner lives, I claim - for I have hated and loved and been angry, but there are a lot of things that others do as routine parts of their days and nights I have never done. These might show what I mean, even if their quality is not the best - three poems I've written inspired by my current temporary job as newspaper delivery man. Now, I challenge you to see the world around you with poet's eyes as you go about your daily chores, and write a poem or two about what you see and do or what others do around you. Reply to this or post it on its own thread, I don't care - I just want to see bits and pieces of the lives of others painted by the expressive yet minimalistic strokes of poetry!

it is just work memories of it soon broken and hidden until only shards remain a man, me driving through a snowstorm over loose snow to the beat of russian techno fist flailing in defiance two birds duelling with songs in a blizzard amidst the frigid dark night lightens up at the corners soon a morning or a spring rubber boots sliding over the ice inside car redecorated with the clinging whiteness of snow and of forgotten newspapers of misty breath on the windows fingers tapping on the leatherclad wheel paid minutes marching away to the forlorn tune clock ticking overtime before toil has begun delivery halted in absence of the goods a slam of a door a gesture of inky fingers a farewell to the carriage day's tasks done only a walk left past others, slower heavily clad colleagues carrying news from the world only shards remain of the winter's knife of the walked nights and the slept days

That's a more coherent and well-written angry poem than most. I liked it. *nod*

Phacyra leaned back, bringing his chair to be supported by the wall. “And then what, ye Scourge of th' Planes?” The planewalker thus addressed lowered his glass of angel's blood down to a stained desk with a dry smile. “Then he proceed'd t' remind me of th' old planewalker adage 'Do not strike a dragon in its lair', that's what then.” Phacyra's head leaned further back as he laughed heartily at the words. He was still grinning when he spoke again. “Hah, that must've been a grand fight. 'Tis been said that Shako Zan 's a terrifyin' force in any battle, if a bit too focus'd t' really tear through large numbers of enemies. Ye should've talked with me 'bout th' lil' details I know of Law's planewalker captains before clashin' with half of them, neh?” His companion's voice was as dry as his smile had been but lacked the bitterness of a sore loser. “I was somewhat busy at th' time, brother. There was th' Grail, an' my ward, m'lady Jankiize, an' th' endless intrigues an' tactical complexities of waging a war. I 'ad t' ally even with Sir Owiric t' get anywhere – without him, I'm not sure there'd been any Grail Wars t' wage. Ye know most of that, an' we both know that. Now, if ye'd come t' me with yer information, then...” The younger-looking and less scarred of the two planewalkers turned serious and leaned forward, bringing to chair to rest on all of its four legs on the floor again. “'Twas a low blow, th' Dreamer. Ye know far better why I can't than I of yer affairs of war, ye havin' been there when all that happen'd, whereas I have unfortunately miss'd experiencin' any of yer recent adventures.” He took his glass from the desk and sipped it morosely, while the Dreamer closed his green eyes and nodded slowly, acknowledging his faux pas, then saluted Phacyra with his own glass and sipped it in turn. “'Ave ye consider'd breakin' this deadlock? I have time now, my brother – just ask an' I shall help, as ye should know I will.” Phacyra savoured his mouthful of liquid as he looked slightly past the Dreamer, deep in solemn thought. When he finally spoke, his words were slower and more firm. “Thank ye for offerin' yer hand, m'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of Chaos, my brother, an' I appriciate th' offer. T' say I haven't been considerin' ending my imprisonment would be folly; 'tis inevitable anybody in my position would dwell on such a subject. Perchance I shall accept yer offer sooner rather than later, ya, but not right now. For even if ye are becalm'd an' without a wind o' Fate to sail with, my affairs are on motion under th' surface, no matter how immobile I myself am. 'Tis not th' correct time, yet.” The Dreamer nodded. “Very well. Ask me anon when th' time is correct, then.”

He brushed the rusty metal with his bare fingers criss-crossed with scars. These pipes were meant to conduct more than just matter. I can feel planar energy humming through them, right under the surface. The Dreamer frowned, his deep blue eyes staring through the red-brown surfaces at the invisible flow of power. Unbidden, that energy turned towards his fingers and leaped past the thin layer of metal, dancing on the chaos armor as an army of electrical sparks that illuminated the cold, dark subterranean tunnel with temperamental lights. This must be a connection to some elemental plane nearby, some place of great power but little direction. So this is where he siphons his power from! “I see ye found my secret, m'lord.” Removing his hand from the pipe did not sever the connection and thus the planewalker was illuminated by the electrical aura as he first moved as if to draw Pain, then realized it would be almost useless in the cramped space and took a general ready stance instead. “Heya, Earl Shakho Zan. What an unexpect'd pleasure.” The voice the Dreamer used was as cold as the one he had been greeted with. Now that he concentrated, he could sense the other planewalker whose cloak of concealment was slowly dissipating, unneeded. The need for secrecy gone, Shakho tapped into the flows of raw energy coursing inside the pipes and flared into view, a young-looking man enveloped inside a violent blue cage of trapped lightning. He wore little clothes: loose dark purple pants, a white headband, wrists and forearms wrapped in black cloth, ascetic metal sandals. Only three scars were visible on his muscular torso, none on his scowling face. Shako took on a martial arts stance, a transparent bolt of bluish energy tearing through the fetid air from his one open palm to another. “I must admit I was expectin' a more imposin' figure, Duke Wodzan Xe Chanima o' Chaos, th' Grail Marauder. Th' stories circulatin' around paint a picture of a devil so formidable he can turn th' tide of th' war alone.” “Those stories might be exaggarat'd, Earl, but I confess I was under th' illusion I had, indeed, turn'd th' tides of war.” A smile appeared on the Dreamer's face, or a grin – it was hard to tell with his hideously scarred countenance. As he spoke, his eyes turned deeper blue until they were two black holes in his white mask of a face. Some unspoken agreement was reached just then, and the pretense of civilized talking was gutted and left in a ditch to die. Shakho changed into a more aggressive stance in a blindingly fast maneuver, then ran forward keeping his two halo'd fists in front of him, the Dreamer responding by grasping the pipe again and draining its energy into a star-like point of light hovering over the cup of his left hand. With a flick of his wrist, the Dreamer threw the painfully bright ball of energy towards the charging Shakho. The Earl eluded the destructive spell with a supernatural alacrity even the Dreamer was barely able to track and struck with one of his fists. The explosion thrust the Dreamer backwards and vaporized his outmost wards, the rest of them coruscating wildly with emerald hues. Unfazed, he dragged long, jagged lines of electricity forth from the pipes with his right hand and threw the rotating blades of energy at the Earl. Shakho batted them aside with seeming ease using his still-glowing left hand and grinned, but did not waste time speaking before leaped forward. This time the younger of the two planewalkers was foiled, a massive fist of force catching his leap and crashing him against the walls of the tunnel, the Dreamer miming the motion with his right hand to aim the spell. The fist dissipated as quickly as it had formed, being just a hasty incantation, and the Earl was faster than the Duke's next spell – he discharged his other fist right into the Dreamer's wards, knocking several of them off and thrusting the older planewalker back again. The Dreamer stood up from amidst the metal wreckage with a red flame in his eyes and a pair of conjured force daggers in his hands.

I did my 8 months (as an office clerk after the basic period, heh), though given army service is compulsory here not sure if that counts for much. Most boring time in my life, endless games of Solitaire, Minesweeper and MS Hearts, but at least I got to try out an assault rifle, wheee!

“We did not waste time after that. News from the front were confused and delayed pieces of the whole, and we had no idea how long it would be before the last battle. Rather than wasting time confirming the true state of affairs, we headed towards the metal world for which the ritual was named, Kalash, with just a minimal crew of angels and constructs. Earl Vrean never commanded a large army, as his strengths lay elsewhere than binding or leading. The journey was well within the limits of Law's territory, and thus outwardly uneventful even for our small retinue. Something seemed to agitate our angelic troops, however, and I saw their captain talk, as animatedly as the serene celestials can be, with the Earl several times, the two of them always speaking too softly for me to hear. I do not know what was the topic of those arguments, but they set an omnious tone to the trip. Only the mindless golems were peaceful towards the end – the rest of us, those who had a mind to conjure hollow phantasms of doubt and fear, grew more nervous as our destination got closer and closer. In top of the very real unease about possible Chaos patrols that had infected us all, more incorporeal fears about what we were going to do ourself whispered in my thoughts. I had seen the ritual, in a way, but I had no way of telling if there would be a flaw in it in some deep but fundamental part of the spell. Nightmares of a third army joining the fray from behind Law's ranks troubled me, but I knew better than to voice my concerns to the Earl. His eyes still had the strange sheen of somebody following a path laid for them in dreams. Despite my delvings into the realms philosophical and historical, I do not know how places like Kalash are created. In the end they exist all the same, whether the feeble theories of the likes of me can them encompass or not, these places of terrible beauty and soulsearing loneliness. Nothing stirred as we landed on the barren surface from the Astral. Around us rose sharp blades of steel and spikes bronze reaching skywards, the diffuse light they had in place of a sun making the edges gleam with murderous glint. Ground below us was smooth and unblemished by rust or corrosion, and there was no moisture in the still air – it was as if we were walking on a smooth globe that had been penetrated by the swords and lances of innumerable knights from below in their futile attempt to break free from their round prison, the whole world frozen in that moment and turned utterly dead and lifeless. Without any ceremonies, after the merest of preparations, Earl Vrean launched into the final parts of his great ritual. He had already performed most of it and bound the resulting half-finished spells into runed stones, staves and wands we had brough with us, items that alone did nothing but here, plugged into their place in the great scheme, became whirring pieces in the machinery of magic. I stood aside and watched him work. I knew if the worst would happen and his spell would backfire or his creations would slay him, I would die here as well, for I lack the necessary skills to navigate the dangerous Void between the pearly crystals of diverse planes and was as such utterly dependant on Earl Vrean. Even with those gloomy thoughts, I would have not changed my place with anybody in the wide multiversum – what I witnessed had me utterly enraptured. The spell made the air sing and burn with its energies, the metal of the planet resonating in a rhythm that made my bones tremble inside my body... ... ah, my words fail. Reality itself was rearranged, Order brought into Chaos with the tools of magic, the Matter made to obey the Word. A glorious thing to behold, yes.” The old man turned his gaze upwards as if he could see again the cataclysmic spell being cast in front of his frail, mortal eyes, then he blinked, dried a tear that had appeared into his right eye and continued after a deep breath. “The ritual was perfect, flawless. It molded the unyielding material of the metal world into a predestined shape, sculpted a living progenitor out of the dead, silent soil of that place. I do believe that was the first and last time any being made of flesh, or even walking the Paths in such a soft guise, saw the Kalash Queen in her full glory of bristling blades and interlocking plates of armour, saw the pure, white brilliance shining in her eyesockets when she was suffused with motion and purpose, or heard the sound of her talons clashing with the steely ground. She bowed to the Earl who made a gesture of benediction – in that moment the hue of Law grew so strong that it revealed itself even to us walking other paths than those of the Art. Air tasted of metal and the diffuse ambient radiance took on a whiter tone, sounds grew clearer and thoughts lost their unnecessary branches, leaving only the true paths. When that blessed moment passed, the Queen had already started burrowing through the crust with her sharp claws, slashing and tearing through the metal in a frenzy that would have been terrifying if there had been any doubt of her allegiances. What followed was a long day of waiting in that unhospitable place, Earl Vrean brooding with an unexpected gloom hanging around him, the angels rustling their wings nervously and staying on the ground, not wanting to test the winds of the planet. I sened the Earl did not want to speak so I kept to my own devices, whiling away the long hours by immersing myself into some ageless philosophical theories and problems. After some time had passed and when they failed to retain my interest, I walked to the hole left behind by the Queen. Thus I was the first to ever see a Kalash warrior rising out of their warrens. He resembled a moving suit of armour with two crackling and sparkling ball lightnings as his eyes, a wicked blade in his hand lined with volatile yellow energy that made my head buzz with the beginning of a headache and a determined purpose in his movements. The blue and yellow glow of his eyes and blade, respectively, cast faint ghostly shadows that danced on the iron ground, as he moved forward towards me. Uncertainly, I took a step backwards to counter his movement, at which point he paused and bowed, speaking with a metallic booming voice afterwards. 'Greetings, Zacharie NeVolarie. With respect, can you point towards the direction of our master, the Earl?' That moment dispelled my fears and doubts. Oh, how I now hope that they would have stayed in my mind, dormant perhaps, but stayed nevertheless!”

the long fingers of winter reach me even here in my nest underneath seven warm layers I shiver chilled to the bone

If you are a British Dutch, remember to add the proper amount of 'u's into words: Colour Arumour And most importantly: Houuunouuuuuuuur

The old man took a long draught of his wine, grimaced slightly at the unrefined taste of it and cleared his throat. “I am known by many names, planewalker, but the one I use myself is Mister Zacharie NeVolarie, a gentleman, alchemist and philosopher, and until late a friend of the famous Earl Vrean DeMorneer of Law. This tale I tell you happened last year, on the 1507th after Unsath Rebellion or on the 70th after the Exodus. The intense wars between Law and Chaos which are now called the Reconstruction Wars were drawing to a bloody conclusion in the Scattered Worlds. Armies of both sides trampled the Paths in fiery processions of white and red and clashed against each other in small skirmishes that in some other time would have been called full scale wars in itself, raining bloody sparks all over the velvet of the Void. Many others know the reasons for the escalation of hostilities better and in future the tomes of history will be more accurate than me about what really happened, so I will bypass the ponderous recitations of the deeds in the fields of battle, valorous, traitorous or cowardly. I spent most of my time away from the tribulations of war with my master, as we were researching a way that would give us the final edge in the woefully balanced situation, both Law and Chaos having gathered very evenly matched forces. No mind was keen enough, no oracle true enough, to know what would happen when the main bodies would finally and inevitably crash against each other to start the final titanic struggle that might shift the Balance. Now, Earl Vrean was well-known by his skill with magical constructs, of which many were already fighting in the ranks of Law's armies. Creating them was a long and tedious process however, and despite their formidable power they often were destroyed in the hands of the opposing planewalker captains in a disproportionately short time. Their colossal bulk and slow, delibrate movements made them easy targets, so while sending the reserves the Earl had created before the conflict into the fields of war helped us to counter partly the ease Chaos has always been able to conjure demonic forces of destruction to their side, crafting more of them in the few short months before the last battle seemed futile. Thus we were delving into a theory of self-replicating machines, a project Earl Vrean and I had discussed about for decades and that he had researched quietly, without hurry, during his spare time. I never understood most of it, given my lack of knowledge in the Art, but I was dimly aware of the sheer brilliance of it. The less technical aspects of the grand ritual, the creation of the first Queen and the questions of how to bind the resulting creations and the creations they would in turn create to our will with iron chains, these we discussed and honed many a times during those weeks, just like this: a planewalker with his glass of devil's blood, in his case, and a mortal with wine, as different as a god and an ant in power but connected via the abstractions of speech. While I was unable to help him with the particulars, I am sure some of his ideas clarified in my presence, the flaws revealing themselves through our dialogue. Or so I say to myself. Even with my minor help, it very much looked like our lofty project would not be finished in time for the final clash and truly our conversations had an air of theoretical talk about them, as if despite all the effort Earl Vrean had placed upon this project it would never bear fruit. That all changed one morning when I came to the Earl's workshop only to see him asleep over his notes and diagrams, sleep being an indulgence Vrean, born human aeons ago, still permitted himself. When I gently shook him awake, his eyes blinked open and he stared me wildly, not seeing who I was for a fleeting moment. He gradually returned to his usual calm and reserved self, but a spark of that wildness I had seen in his deep, immortal eyes remained with him from that night. I asked once what dreams he had seen but he did not answer, only replying with a hooded, annoyed gaze that signified his refusal to talk about the subject. Pursued or pushed by whatever hounds he had seen in his nightmares or daydreams, the work changed from the idle musings of an interested academic to the fevered, hasty research generally associated with generating machines of war to the losing side. Suddenly Vrean leaped over pits on the way to success with an intellectual agility I've seldomly seen even in the undying ones and further improved those parts of the work that I had thought finished. In weeks he blazed through the research of decades, his Grand Ritual of Kalash forming itself piece by piece in front of our very eyes. Even if I lack deeper knowledge in the magical, from what I have heard his layered ritual was of unprecedented complexity and power – on the surface, it merely created the first of the Kalash out of the material of a metal world Vrean had scouted and concealed with spells decades ago for this purpose, a Queen who would be able to create more of the loyal metal warriors for us. Hidden under that layer was a core of spells governing the minds and futures of the race of golems we were striving to carve out of the waiting, inert metal; and hidden under these, yet more words and sigils in an intricate web that would anchor every construct created by the results of this grand ritual to us, and to past and future and the Fates in a way I could not understand. When it was ready and he showed an illusion of it all as a vision, a softly glowing blossom of sigils and runes too small to see to make it all fit into a room, the different layers rotating around each other and flickering in and out of this time and space, I knew I was witnessing history being made – history of the Multiversum, no less.” Zacharie coughed and took a sip of his wine to moisten his parched throat, gave the Dreamer a questioning look to ensure he was still listening attentively. The planewalker nodded and gestured the human to continue his story.

I just prefer the confuse people who only speak english with my directly translated Finnish sayings. If they try to confuse me in turn I use my "Meesa foreignerner, meesa no understand" defense. Mwhahahahaha!

Mmm I like it. *reads it a few times* It doesn't wallow in self-pitying angsty melodrama, which'd be easy, given the subject. *nods slowly to himself*

Well, if we actually examine the situation with some seriousness, the answer would be ninja with no contest. When stripped of the romantic veil of fiction, pirates weren't much of a fighters really - they were the highwaymen of the seas, pretty good with all things related to sailing but in no way equal to even a soldier in combat. Ninjas, on the other hand, were the Navy SEALs of their time, trained in the arts of killing and subterfuge for most of their lives. So, in terms of raw killing ability, a pirate < a soldier < a ninja, or a pirate <<< a ninja. Pirates might be cool but they were no real warriors.

The planewalker turned his yellow eyes away from the disturbing and distracting visage of the Abyss-creature, coughed softly and let his voice settle into the cadence of a practiced storyteller. “Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 71 after Anvil's drow exodus, almost 'xactly twenty-four centuries ago. I was young those days, an' th' first half a millenium had not seen fit t' adorn me yet with this map o' scars I now carry.” The creature hissed and gurgled its displeasure at this slow start, but quieted surprisingly when the Dreamer glared at it with two narrowed eyes like thin horizontal flames. “Any tale worth tellin' is worth tellin' right, Corrupter.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them wider and continued his tale. “Now, as I was sayin', I was quite diff'rent those days, filled with th' focused sense of absolute yet undirected purpose of young things. Th' Paths were in turmoil then, much as they are now, in th' aftermath of th' Reconstruction Wars. Th' Kalash were formin' their strict, set ways, castin' away those overly touch'd by th' chaotic magic of th' Grail, an' some of those creations were alter'd far enough for them to walk th' Ways Between. Along the same roads travelled th' remains of various detachments of Law an' Chaos, both torn as badly by th' last, apocalyptic Battle of th' Turnin' Tides. Rumours of a new horror with power beyond those of gods an' planewalkers, a bare maiden with a halo of daggers circulated an' th' Cult of th' End thrived an' swell'd like a malicious tumor feedin' on the gloom. I was mostly untouch'd by all this, rulin' over my tiny fief far away from th' main battlefields. Th' first few months after th' end of th' war even th' younger, foolish version of me was wise enough to stay home, but when things quieted down an' it was clear I'd get no reliable news of what had really happen'd unless I'd travel to see it myself, my restlessness grew until it drove me out of my fortress. Th' need t' travel did not quite devour my carefulness, however, an' I spirall'd towards th' centre of th' devastation in a lazy, slow spiral that allow'd me t' ascertain the kinds of trouble I might meet deeper.” The visions flickered next to him, showing a rapid series of fantastic views: the pearly stars of the worlds against the black velvet of the Void, a metal titan sparkling with golden magic wrestling with archdemon on a Lost Path, the tattered remains of a squad of angels fighting against a very much younger version of the planewalker, shards of planar crystal falling as glittering snow over devastated landscape of lava in a dying plane. “Me an' Sarnael, th' conjunction of an evil essence an' a holy angel, clash'd near Ghvael. 'Tis a whole 'nother tale an' th' progenitor of yet more tales, so no more of it – sufficient t' say we were both too young to kill each other, an' so 't amounted to not much more than a mock battle. That slow'd me down, however, which was lucky for me, or perhaps th' work of th' elusive Fates. For near where th' Pearl Necklace o' th' Worlds an' th' Anvil meet was a mortal tavern I knew of that was rumour'd to serve angel's blood, th' only real refresment I indulge myself with, an' th' martial exercise 'ad made me thirsty. For once, th' rumour was correct. Even though th' place was a veritable thieves nest, they did have a bottle of exquisite angel's blood for me. I paid with enough t' purchase that miserable wooden hovel twice over an' sat down in th' nearest table that had a free chair, hopin' that I would not be requir'd t' kill any locals before I'd be able to enjoy th' elixir in peace. T' my surprise, th' only mortal at th' table only nodded to me deeply with a knowin' look on his old face, an' when I gave him a better look, intrigued by his calm an' correct behaviour, I could sense th' lingerin' remains of magic, of both Chaos and Law in nature.” In the changing illusion, an angel of terrible and terrifying beauty flew through the inky darkness of the Void and swept downwards to strike the younger version of the planewalker, only to be parried and riposted. Just as another presence approached the scene, it transformed and showed the ageless beauty of the Pearl Necklace of the Worlds, a perfect curved series of planes. Then the picture changed yet again and showed a shadowy tavern filled with thugs, mercenaries, sailors and ne'er-do-wells, with the young Dreamer sitting near the bar in a table better illuminated than most, a glass of thick red liquid in front of him and an old man clothed in fine but slightly worn clothes sitting opposite him. “Therein lay a tale, I was sure, an' bein' young an' curious I tried t' coax that tale out to th' open. Without further preamble I spoke to the mortal man over th' rim of my glass o' angel's blood. 'Greetings, m'lord. I have a feelin' ye fit t' this establishment as poorly as I do, an' that ye have a story t' tell.' 'Greetings, lord. It is true that I have very little in common with the usual clients of this hole, yes. As to the story, I might be able to tell my tale if you promise to remember it well, planewalker. For it is a tale with a lesson, and I'd rather not see others follow the way of my former master to early doom.' 'Now ye have my full attention, mortal, an' I promise by my mage sigil an' th' harmony of neutrality it represents t' commit every word of yer tale t' my immortal memory, never t' be expunged unless th' Fates so decree.' 'Fair enough, fair enough. A tale I'll tell, then – a tale of hubris and fall, of Chaos and Law and of power, and how it is not always enough to save you, no matter how skilled in the Art you are. A tale of Vrean DeMorneer and the Kalash, if you will.'”

Who would win in a popularity contest fight, neh?

Happy birthday, Sal - hope ye get well soon!

There's no fight. There's just the glorious victory of the ninja!

Ninjas, because they are mammals and have the Real Ultimate Power. Ohhh, besides! Ninja looting, ninjaing and ninja buffing/healing are prodigious and brave acts of stupidity, stealth and skill whereas pirating is just downloading stuff from the Net. Which is cooler, huh?

Messes up the words of the immortal poet yet again, this time in response to Describe blasters' fragility with a poem. To survive, or not to survive: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind not to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous bosses, Or to use the rifle with a sea of inspirations, And by shooting quell them? To shoot: to blast; No more; and by a blast to say we start The knock-back and the thousand defeat messages That blasts are heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To shoot, to blast; To shoot: perchance to be defeated: ay, there's the rub. Shouts: "Mercy! They made me do it!" and runs off to a different direction than last time.

A silence stretched from a short pause in the story to something that might have been the end of it, even if the tale had had no proper ending yet. The Dreamer stared somewhere beyond the table and the tavern, as far from the present as the peculiar visions he had shown and told of. The young man emptied his tankard and listened the illusionary fire roar, moved nervously, wondered if there was some real barrier between him and the purple shadows of the rest of the tavern that would prevent him from leaving this table if he would so choose.Without warning, without any outside sign, the old, scarred man jerked awake from his reverie and continued the tale as if there'd been no break in the flow of his mellow, deep voice. “I shall not bore ye with th' various details of th' search itself, with much of it only of interest for devotees of divination of th' will of th' Fates, or for those who seek knowledge from old, musty tomes an' think information 's a worth in itself, even if it serves no higher purpose. Sufficient t' say I used my refin'd skills with th' Chárôt cards an' acted on their nebulous advice, oft' strayin' an' chasin' ghost trails and dead ends, for even to those of us to whom th' cards talk, they do it with a whisper'd, cryptic voice. I shall bypass th' minor skirmishes I had, also, th' first probes of those who 'ad aimed their blades an' spears at me after th' Grail Wars did not need them any more. I have not lived for over three millenia to be fazed with those feeble attempts on me an' my various holds.” The pictures beside him showed hints of the things the old man did not speak. Endless repetitions of the Dreamer (now present in the visions the first time, and clad in a wine-red armor that seemed to be alive) hunched over large cards with vivid pictures in them, their connection with the absolute core of the Fates so clear even the young man heard them muttering obscure prophecies at the edges of his mind, then again visions of battles, these smaller with their outcome clear in the effortless way they showed the old man swinging a spectral, wailing blade, scything through the demons that surged against him. He glanced at the smaller version of himself fighting things that looked like upright, burning bulls, and made a dismissive gesture that cleared the illusion. “As there were no distractions worth of my real attention, I pursued th' goal with tenacity that has always lead to some sort of conclusion. Piercin' through th' webs of obfuscation spun around th' matter, I found out th' place where th' original Blue Flame was kept: an old planewalker fortress, its old traps repair'd an' new ones added, potent enchantments of confusion, misdirection an' protection engraved upon th' very roots of the construction. Passive defenses of that kind can hardly stop me, however, if I am given all th' time I need an' there is no army to harass me. Travellin' from th' outskirts of th' deadly maze I gnaw'd my way through th' many layers of snares, relishin' the challenge, movin' at the pace of a careful snail.” As he spoke, the illusion flickered into life again, grim sigils and runes dancing around each other in a chaos. They faded one by one and the vision dispersed, revealing another one below it. In that, the Dreamer walked through corridoors of cream-colored stone, a very tall staff of black iron in his hand. His steps were slow and his eyes burned with a fiery yellow as he tapped lightly the floor and the walls with the tip of the staff. The vision shifted, the colors gaining an unreal edge to them that was painful to behold, and where had been empty air now appeared runes and sigils of the same sharp, unpleasant shape that had swirled around each other in a chaotic cloud in the first place. In that shifted world, the Dreamer himself shone with all the colors of the rainbow, a coruscating emerald sphere encompassing him protectively. “Th' traps were of exquisite skill, an' I was even scarred once, a rare occurance. Neverth'less, their potency was already diluted by their great age - th' day after they were forged, in a multiversum much different from ours, aeos ago, they might've made me retreat or succumb, such had been their original glory. But break them I did, and th' last chamber before the last I did enter, th' antechambers of th' heart, an' there I met th' last of the traps, an' the most mighty. Whoever had been th' last guardian o' the Blue Flame had in power surpass'd any of my kin I know of, an' travelled deeper into th' Abyss than I could. An' there, in th' depths of th' primaeval Chaos an' black'st Evil, he 'ad wrought a masterful bindin', an arch-spell strong enough to drag one of the Nameless Ones from their pits where they squat an' devour souls in th' inky, solid gloom.” The window to the Dreamer's story dimmed and a darkness spread over it, a night where something vast and deadly moved, its shape indiscernible but unquestionably vile. A chill shook the young listener, and he was glad the illusion did not show more. “I knew I could not battle th' thing, not without layin' siege t' it with numerous spells an' conjurations, without bringing an army of celestials and abyssals through th' twisty, trapped maze, a project that might certainly be within my limits but as certainly not worth it. I stared into th' boiling aura of tenebrous miasma th' fiend wore like an over-sized cloak, my eyes ablaze with annoyance an' alertness, shinin' with th' yellow of twin suns. It sensed me then, or had known I had been traveling towards it for some time and only then did deign t' turn its attention towards me; either way, its massive bulk shifted an' its sharp legs scraped 'gainst th' stone, here corrupted from creamy white to cracked, bleak grey. We matched gazes, it revealin' its pale, murky eyes to me – like two open wounds in its ugly hide they were, instruments of intimidation more than sensing, and I could not match its will. Grimacing, I withdraw my challenge, prepared to leave this hopeless venture.” The Dreamer's eyes narrowed and slender tendrils of yellow and purple crept into them in memory of the annoying situation. He gestured vaguely and opened his eyes fully again, their color deepening towards dark blue. “Th' abysmal entity 'ad other plans for me, however. 'T opened its maw, a gash openin' into a deep limbo surrounded by stained yellow teeth, an' out of that foul-smelling aperture issu'd a sound I cannot describe, but can imitate: 'Greetings, lowly worm. Kneel before a Lord of Abyss, surface-dweller.'” The voice, even imitated and issuing from the normal-looking mouth of the old, scarred man, raised the young man's hackles. It was like two massive granite slabs grinding together, like a thousand tormented slithering things shouting in agony, like the wet sound entrails make when they hit the ground – and the words formed themselves from this sickly disharmony of sounds. The old storyteller paused briefly after the imitation to observe the effect of what he just said on the young man and grinned, the scars shifting around his face like a nest of snakes. “Not very pleasant voice, neh? Nor very pleansat words, for that matter – but I was unfazed, knowin' that is how they talk, an' that he was still confined into the central chambers of the maze with an unbreakable set of magical chains. If he'd been able to charge at me, he'd done so without wastin' time to remember how to speak. I was curious, however, of th' fact he had spoken at all. Those things, even if they have all the capacity for cunnin' an' malicious thinkin', rarely exercise those functions, preferrin' to exist as mindless pseudo-gods, animalistic creatures of sheer hunger and rage that spend their time devouring or dreaming in the bottoms of their pits.So, I nodded to the thing, as deep as I bow to anything that is perhaps more powerful than me but has less manners. 'Greetings, Devourer. Ye seem a long way from yer warm, snug pits, neh?' It groaned an' howled, trash'd against th' invisible chains that held it in place. But we both knew it was just for show, that th' chains held fast, an' after 'twas satisfied with its show of rage, it spoke again. 'I know what you are after, Walker. You cannot get it through me.' 'Ya, 'tis true', I acquiscenc'd. 'You can have a spark of the Flame, worm, for a price.' 'An' what'd th' price be, Devastator?' By then I was feelin' quite suspicious, an' given th' normal state of mind of any planewalker is extreme paranoia, that's sayin' something. Th' way I figured it, it'd either ask an unreasonable price or try to trick me into approachin' it without proper caution. Not t' mention a proper chainin' would've never allow'd him to let me pass, 'nother reason to be sceptical. 'You may not see it, blind worm, but these chains are weakening. A thousand years ago I would not have been able to propose this pact, Walker – two thousand years ago, I would not have been able to speak.' It then launched into another fit of wordless rage 'gainst its chains, growlin' and howlin' with its fiendish voice, a storm I weather'd patiently. Once it was done, it continued. 'Another thousand years and you may quake, for I'll be free. Already, I care not for the Blue Flame I am supposed to guard – nobody can chain one of my stature for long. Not even Vraen DeMorneer.' It spat then, a jet of venomous acid that splash'd on th' stone and raised wisps o' smoke, its maw twisting into a grin of acrid hatred an' its sharp legs clawin' uselessly against th' walls of its prison makin' th' whole maze tremble. 'Yer wise enough t' know I shan't break th' chains that hold ya, Lord of Abyss. What it is ye need, then?' 'I have been away too long, servant. I want something to savour, a focus for my hate. Tell me a tale of him, of the journeys of Vrean DeMorneer, my captor, and I'll swear by my true name I shall let you pass and remove a spark.' 'By yer true name, Obliterator? A tale'll it be, then.'” In the illusion that floated beside the Dreamer appeared the figure of the Dreamer, who gestured, and an empty picture appeared beside him, ready to augment the planewalker's tale with visions.

Nah Appy, the reason would be easy to recognize if it'd be happiness, but that's not quite it. *scratches his head* Glad to hear ya'll like it, there's no real reason for me to stop either as long as these peculiar humorous inspirations strike my near-bald head. Guess it's just slow conquering of new territory, I wonder what's next. Soppy romance tales? Non-fiction? Rhyming poems? o_O