Ozymandias

*hugs* I'm so sorry my computer-hopping makes it so hard for me to use chats. I, among the multitutde of others, miss you. *hugs* =^-^=

Thessalonian strides through the set on his way to his 'studio' (a docking bay he'd somehow managed to almost entirely commandeer for himself, his won supplies and the studio's recording devices) having just received yet another odd jumble of junk to create with. A glowering cameraman whom he'd shanghaied for the duty trundled along behind him pushed a wheelbarrow full of slinkys, two washboards, empty coke bottles, and an iron cookpot. The white-haired old man muttered around his cigratte the entire time, making simlutaneous nonsensically intricate movements with his hands in the air in front of him as he walked. Breaking out of his reverie, but not stride as he spied Terry on the catwalk, he shouted in his deep rasp, "Oy! Terry! Tell Seelvergh we'll have that 'engine power down' by four, right?" Before Terry can reply, and before John can even lift his deft, tobacco stained hands again, he stops dead in his tracks. The cameraman mutters a curse as he nearly bowls the other man over with the wheelbarrow, so suddenly is John's attention diverted. "What?", he shouts at the two techs he had been passing, interrupting their conversation. "Did I hear that right? Pete? Dead?" (OOC: I accuse Vahktang. Why? I don't know...)

Ozymandias, every inch the pharaoh in his gilt and silken full court dress, enters quietly, as is his custom (even as most leave). He spies the hostess, and makes a beeline to her. Aheming equally quietly as he stops behind the thoughtful girl, he greets her as she turns with a warm smile and a low bow. "The light display was my doing, I admit. I simply wanted everyone to see clearly the beauty of our wonderful hostess tonight, and this was the best accent I could think of. I do hope it's not too much?", he finished, with a worry-furrowed brow.

Two biggest standouts for me: "extrinsic" I like that word very much. I don't even know if it's real, but I thoroughly enjoy your use of it anyway. The lyrical nature of the whole piece being such that I almost *could* hear music playing in my head as a soft, somber and introspective male voice reads it. Well done.

Very sporting, you evil, eeevil Sith, you.

Snaps the fingers of his right hand in appreciation as he takes a quietly thoughtful sip of espresso...

Finally seeing a lack of spots in his vision, Ozymandias closed his eyes and concentrated. He reached outward through the aether, questing with his will outside of his own body, across this world and many others, and found his mark. His connection to the magics of Terra -his second homeworld- had thinned over time, however, his tight grip had arrested its' depletion. Today, for the intricacy of power weaving he desired, he slowly produced the foci he knew he would need from belt pouches (though he was still not sure why he had thought to bring them, since he had only thought of this particular enchantment on his way over). First, a handful of red rose petals were scattered in the slight breeze (delivered thus along with the briefest of tiny eyelid opening and smiling to match, as he caught sight of Zariah heading back in- and not having noticed him). Then came a sprinkling of a small pile sand in a semicircle in front of the old wizard- a sand much too dark to be from Pen lands, learned eyes would recognize. Then thirdly, with inclined head, Ozymandias opened his eyes, stuck a fist out casually, then moved it in a strange up, down, down pattern. With as little fanafare as that, the former king of Egypt stood clad in royal finery of the greatest make and design from that far, far off land, and time so long ago. Striding more confidently now (though with an almost imperceptible quaver), Ozymandias carefully measured his steps so that he would enter the hall a few minutes after Zariah did. The hostess, in her turn, started in small surprise when all eyes turned to her as she walked back into the great hall. Zariah began to chide herself for not remembering that it was only natural for party guests to take note of the host or hostess' coming and going - especially if it is through the front door- then stopped as she wondered at where all of this new light was coming from. She gasped in surprise when she realized it was her. Her hair, the folds of her dress, even the motion of legs, arms, and even head, were all accompanied by an exuding of a small, soft nimbus of pinkish-red light, of almost the exact same hue and tone as Presidente Pilocanci's hologram hearts- though her glow was just a little gentler. An animate sash of the same stuff danced and flowed gracefully, almost liquidly all around her, working its' way from head to toe, then back again, accentuating her every movement (and of course, not hampering her vision, or afftecting her in any other way). It seemed to be made of dancing light particles big enough to see, ones that moved gently in their own individual rhythm, expanding and contracting, even as the whole group smoothly continued their silent Zariah-dance. Seemed to be, until she noticed one final detail as they glided past her face once again, curling around her cheek, flying past her lips, turning sharply around her cheek, flowing down her neck and (modestly) continuing on- they were in fact, tiny semitransparent rose petals made of light, whisked along as in a breeze only they could feel.

You play the heartstrings ably as always. As I've already told you, and is worth saying again, well said, and beauty indeed in sadness. Thank God you're still pretty bad at dodging the hugs. *hug*

After what felt to the Loremaster like forever, Ozymandias and the Grim Squeaker arrived within sight of the Cabaret room's high doors. Skidding to a halt and sucking air like it was going out of style, Ozymandias nearly collapsed where he stood. As oxygen finally reasserted itself in his bloodstream to sufficient levels for him to think again, the care-and-weatherworn wizard took stock of his partygoing appearance in mounting dismay. Late, to such an auspicious occasion for the dear girl and slovenly?, he muttered mentally, even as his gasping finally slowed to a steady rhythm. This will not do.

Ozymandias' sandals collided violently with the stonework floors of the Pen Keep as he pelted forward with all speed. The weathered and grey Egyptian (body having long ago been pushed to old age before its' time) was nowhere near as quick on his feet as many of the nonhuman members of the keep, but among mortals, counted as one of the swiftest distance runners when the need arose. The need had arisen this very hour, so he ran for all he was woth, breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he churned his screaming legs ever faster, and pushed pleading lungs in and out, again and again. He did all this while viciously throttling a small form in a black robe- clad only else in a garishly red bow tie- with both hands, and gasping oaths at it. As Loremaster, Ozymandias had long ago developed certain mulitasking skills that might seem superhuman. It was a much busier job than being king of Egypt ever had been, this was certain. "Why... Do... I... EVER... *wheeze* Count... On... YOUR... time... Sense... You... insuff... erable... little... HEMMORHOID. now... We're... both... late... and... Za... riah... Is... likely... VERY UPSET." With the effort of even such mildly loud outrage as he could muster at that time, Ozymandias' lungs convulsed, he coughed violently, and he nearly stumbled over Simon and Lewis as they made off in the opposite direction with Wyvern's account ledger...again. Sputtering an apology at them, he renewed his nearly broken stride and continued on.

Eyes widening at the sight of his prey, the Bothan abruptly drops into normal speed, skidding to a skier's halt on the durasteel plating floors. Que-essa barely has time to raise her eyebrows in alarm as she sees the air itself ripple around Klen in the split second it takes the wave of pure, tactile hatred to form and rush toward her. He screams incoherently. It reaches a crescendo that witnesses' eardrums threaten to burst under. It sounds almost as if his vocal cords are shredding themselves under his effort to give voice to his own black passions. The wave fills the corridor, enveloping all in its' path. There is no escape. The tatooed woman grimaces in pain, throwing an arm up to shield her face as her skin begins to blister, and more flammable portions of her clothing to sear and smoke. The air for meters of hallway is tinged the faintest red. Scant seconds later, the otherwordly assault ends and Klen screams no longer. Que-essa slowly straightens, hair and clothing criscossed by black burns, each still smoking faintly. Angry pink and red welts and blisters raise across nearly all of her exposed skin, even as she lowers her arm to glower at her would-be assassin. Klen, to her gratification pants heavily, sweat dripping from him so profusely that it rolls out of even his thick fur. He is seemingly bent over from the effort of his strange attack, staring at her in turn, a feral look in his eyes. "Is that all you have up your sleeve?", she laughs quietly. "Too bad. It will not be much of a fight once you have seen mine." With that, she ignites her own lightsaber with a snap-hiss, and rushes at him. Klen straightens with a renewed vigor, though his breathing is still ragged. Silently he charges in response, teeth bared, lightsaber in his right hand, left fist balled. Both combatants begin to blur as they gather more and more impossible speed.

OORAH for epic duels. Shall we then, Madamoiselle Celes? I wanna get in one good fight, just in case I die...

John Thessalonian, sound effects man! Used to work in radio, ended up knowing the right people to make the transistion to TV with much less fuss and disaster as so many stars of the old shows did (yes, this does mean he's getting up there in years, but he still attacks his job with zeal, and never disappoints). A perfectionist, and chain smoker. Can be seen at the top of a ladder for days at a time, cigarette held firmly in his mouth, dropping various and sundry objects on as many different surfaces until he gets just the right "CRASH!"

A really, REALLY bastardized way of saying, "Promote you, now!"

Even my careful analysis has gotten me little else than what is in front of me. Palu is dead. His natural diplomacy marked him, but it seems he was but a darkling with a silver tounge... Jethay was a stock-in-trade character for a spy to play, yet he was, lamentably, exactly what he seemed... Rukmini's vapidity too, fairly shrieked of secrets within secrets, especially in this place where only the strong survive, but again, she was, indeed in the unfortunate way, not what *she* seemed... So many times has the obvious overshadowed the more subtle danger. So, being left with small, unassuming, Fx'zet, he who seems to shy away from saber, or any combat for that matter, like an herbivore from fresh meat...how he never associates with the other students...and finally, how fine, delicate, and balanced control he wields over the force and himself... I must reject this final wild goose chase if I am to survive. With a soft grunt, Klen drops to his feet, still sweating from his workout. Wasting no time in changing into clean clothes, or even cleaning himself, he strides forward, calling his lightsaber into his right hand- so that he may feel that carnage and destruction all that much more. Proceeding quickly down the hall, Klen throws on a burst of unnatural speed as he closes in on his target, handily outpacing projectiles and blaster bolts, lashing out with raw force energy that sends all passerbys in his way flying. He narrows his thoughts down to a mantra in preparation for the coming battle. My fury has burned clear the path to my foe...I cannot be stopped...My fury has burned clear the path to my foe...I cannot be stopped... (OOC: A vote for Lady Celes Crusader!)

Oh, and FYI Gryph- The 'ruthlessness' comment was *only* IC. I'm a bit o' a Star Wars buff meself, so I saw what you did as being perfectly ho-kay. :>)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! No pressure, right? :>) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! AAAAAAAAHH!

Odd, it seems indeed to Klen for a Jedi to have been so...ruthless. However, when in the gundark's den...what else to do? There would have been no running for him, not if he were to accomplish his mission. Whatever it was. He continues his religious regimen of chin-ups in his quarters, pondering heavily. How to discover a liar in a web of lies?

Well, rassum frassum car dealt with, I am back. Miss me? (wanders off, hoping to *not* read he is now dead...)

Yep, it's that time again. You are getting promoted once more! (quick note- these are February's promotions) Last time, we found out what your names say. This time, I thought it would be fun to see what you'd say. (quiz furnished by Memegen 4.0 - The ultimate quiz factory and grlintrrupted) What's a Good Quote for You? The quiz asks for a name and a color, so I picked a color for each of you as logically as I could, as follows: To Page: Sweetcherrie cherries are red, soo... "Mmmmm...cheese." Sweetnightmare Nightmare, most associated color= black... "You know what your problem is? You're stupid!" Sparhawk hawks are very often brown. "Every time I go to the doctors I get a jacket, a straight one. It makes me feel special because I get to hug myself." Riven Riven, the sequel to Myst, takes place on an island in the deep blue sea... "sigh" Wavechild The sea has waves. It is also green. "The cat sctratched me...yeah, the cat." Equester Equester...a play on sequester? Nuns and monks sequester themselves in monasteries and nunneries, which are old, tan brick quite often. "Showers are for people that want to smell good!" To Quill-Bearer: Venefyxatu Flies under the Jolly Roger, who's all a-bleached white. ""If you turn your panties inside out, they are good to go again! Black9 Black! Danke for simplicity, Sirrah! :>) "You smell like butt!" Ummmm...yeaaaahhh... Congratulations, one and all!!!!

Good to see you again, Shathward. I hope things continue to get better...

First Jethay, now Mira. Klen wondered idly if this was the emergence of a pattern, but put the thought aside, waiting to revisit it until he had more proof. There was at least one definite indicator amongst the notables in the academy he knew for certain- hiding in plain sight remained a worthy stealth tactic. He pondered this as he barreled through his opponents as they sparred- as usual, three on one (with a careful dose of attempting to backstab one another as well). His fur flattened in pain as he took a force pike to the hip- and damn it, of course he'd had to take the hit on his uninjured leg. (OOC: Vote for Sweetcherrie!)

'lo all- I had some car trouble which kept me from my commute to the computer yesterday, so I'm back, und about to poke my head in now (and from the looks of in here, things got a bit interestin')

Arf? (heeheeheehee ^^ )

"Though you do have a point," Klen sighed, still ignoring Rukmini. "Your history *is* fairly well documented. Simply had to test, you know?" he added with a grin. "I still don't think she is of any threat, however. Which brings me, at least, right back to the beginning. This is a puzzle! I'll keep an eye on your research, however. Should it be more fruitful than mine," Klen continued smoothly. After a brief pause, Rukmini opened her mouth to tell this arrogant creature what she thought of him and his opinions, but Klen spoke first. "By the way," he said to Palu without a hint of menace and his bionic hand outstretched,"Saber." (OOC: Change of vote! Make mine Mynx, for as yet un-rp'ed reasons that I haven't thought of yet, 'cause I'm very, very tired.)