Ozymandias

"I know who you are. That's why I'm laughing," manages Timothy, wiping away tears with his sleeve. "I saw it back when you met us on the road, so long ago. Your past, that is." Jagon had nearly closed the distnce betwen the two, even as Gyrfalcon hoisted himself up, grim determination writ on his face. Kalyera refocused finally, on her thoughts and the matter at hand, hoping she was not too late. Myth simply gazed steadily at Jagon, murder in her eyes. Jagon's concentration was in fact, broken. They were free. Jagon fairly dived in front of the battleworn scholar and raised his sword for one, and only one blow. "It's just so sad it's funny you and your kind be corrupted, just like us." With that statement, Timothy moved his arms and sword upward and out in an impressive overhand block, simultaneously twsiting his body to the side of Jagon's killing stroke even as he moves to cleave Timothy's head, perhaps whole body in two with his burning sword. A block, Gyrfalcon realizes in some shock, that *he* uses in tight situations. Ultimately, however, the maneuver does not serve the young human as well as it has the battle-hardened half-elf. Gaspoliner's might alone reduced the section of blade it touched to white-hot molten metal instantly, the force and arc of Jagon's swing spraying it through the air, even as the top half of Timothy's sword spun away madly to embed itself in a wall. Jagon dodged back despite himself, narrowly avoiding the droplets, but Timothy screamed in agony as he was caught full in the face - a fat wad of burning steel landing home in his ruined eye- then laid open at the right shoulder almost to the bone from the follow through of the incredible weapon.

Ozymandias swore at no one. Setting down his ballpoint quill-I reallymust remember to thank Caryon for it, he mused briefly-The Loremaster leaned back in his chair far enough to be staring straight at the ceiling. Exasperated, he ran one hand through his now totally grey mane of hair while drumming the fingers of the other impatiently on his seat's oaken arm. A pox on all paperwork!, thought he with feeling. Still, it's what I'm here for... Letting his frustration and boredom win for the time being, his mind began to wander yet again over the couple of years that had gone by with himself as Loremaster of The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. There were many happy times and many bad, as life, even for such unceasingly extraordinary folk as made homes here, could be counted on to grant all living things. However, in his mind, that bulldog thing between his ears that picked a matter up and worried it sometimes until there was nothing left, *his* performance came up more wanting than not. Contemplating further the speedily multiplying list of tasks he needed to get done, his dredging of old failures only magnified the problems. His body folded forward over the unadorned desktop as he held his head in his hands. How much damage did I do? How many did I fail...? He let himself founder for several minutes in what ifs and could have beens for reasons he himself still did not fully comprehend. Slowly, though, he let his attention wander again, and finally extended his senses out far enough to the world around him that he was able to discern the not-so-subtle shift in the sounds of his keep. All was silent, he realized with a start, except for noises of a party. A big one. Laughter, music, and the occasional sounds of furniture breaking that were signature to any social gathering at the Migthy Pen Keep wafted through his window even here in the Tower of Elders. He sat, taking it in for awhile; simply letting others' joy slowly wash away the worry from his heart. Soon he had the gentle prodding of his common sense (or soemthing else) to put it all in perspective showing him real peace. Then all of a sudden, he nearly flew from his seat in his urgency to get away from his desk. "Ayshela's ball! Blast!", he muttered vehemently as he worked to untangle his now rather snarled robe from his chair. Distracted as he was, Ozymandias failed to notice the humanoid form slowly rising, wraithlike from the fossilized Velociraptor egg he kept on his shelf. Soon a towering thing stood behind him, clad in much bronze jewlery around its arms and neck as well as a simple, yet fine cloth wrapped around its waist. It was almost a man, but for the sneering Jackal head that sprouted from its broad shoulders. Ozymandias felt the air rushing around the his attacker before he heard Anubis snarl and dive at his back. The Egyptian god of the dead was determined to settle the old score between himself and the upstart king who had dared try and wield his own power over the dead. None ever had before, and Anubis would not be denied in seeing none would again. He clamped powerful jaws around the wizened man's throat and began to tear. Ozymandias cried out in pain despite himself. Dark, soulless eyes flashed in triumph. Until Ozymandias brought to bear his latest reading project -the tome The History of the Mighty Pen Vol. 1- savagely into his snout. The dark god grunted his pain, but did not let go. "I-", Ozymandias managed to gasp with difficulty. Another smash. "-don't-" Smash. He felt the slavering jaws slacken ever so slightly, even as his effort pumped more blood out of the many punctures in his neck. "-have-" Smash. He kept up the assault anyway. "-time-" SMASH. The Jackal saw stars. Still he held on grimly. "-for-" SMASH! For the first time in recorded history, this lord of the dead's nose sprayed blood. "-you!", Ozymandias finished with fervor, even as he twisted in that steely grip to clout the god upside the head with the ironbound book. For a horrible second, the man who was known a long, long time ago as Ramses the Second felt the flesh of his neck tear like ground beef. Then, as quickly as the fight had begun, Anubis' jaw went slack as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Ozymandias strode purposefully over to his bookshelf and quickly dashed Anubis' gateway from the dead- his Velociraptor egg- into dozens of pieces on the floor. The beaten god immediately disappeared. "I'm late for a party," he said once again to no one. **** Careful not to bleed on his papers and books but at the same time very conscious of not letting himself go into shock, the wounded old man became a whirlwind of magical and mundane activity. He mixed herbs, applied poultices -MUST remember to thank Gyrfalcon for those!-, wrapped a bandage, tore through his wardrobe, and wondered vexedly how on earth he'd tame his hair all at once. Something with a collar, I think, he strategized even as he winced in pain at turning his head. No need to worry Peredhil and others unduly- Aha! Finding the appropriate suit to go with his shirt, Ozymandias laid all out carefully before running for all he was worth down the hall in search of a tub of hot water. His customary garb, he realized now that he paid attention, emitted the most unpleasant smell when he'd removed his armor. A thorough bath, a change into something both presentable *and* hygenic, and a quick styling of hair from a helpful but thoroughly exasperated Mind Ripper he'd summoned [who assured Ozymandias that he'd read several books on the subject, or fed on a hairstylist once(he admitted he couldn't *quite* remember which. At which point Ozymandias eyed the creature's suspiciously light loafers, but said nothing)], the Loremaster was finally on his way to the Fall Ball. **** Arriving at the enterance to the ballroom, he was mildly surprised to see door guards. Ah well, he thought with a mental shrug and a small smile. We need a touch of class every now and then, and we can't count on Master Elrond for *everything*. Bowing formally at the waist to the two, he opened his mouth to introduce himself, but was interrupted by a *very* curious reaction of eyes bulging as they took him in and a very swift and barely nonviolent opening of the doors for him. Now thoroughly confused and a little concerned, he resolved to keep a sharp watch this evening. Can't have gotten that rowdy so quickly, can it? Of course, Ozymandias' defintion of "rowdy" verus that of the rented guards' had a gulf akin to The Grand Canyon in its way. Strolling into the room as unobtrusively as he could (he tended to be embarassed by pomp and circumstance these days), Ozymandias decided his first course of action should definitely be to seek out his hostess. As he searched the room for her, he had instinctively already begun to use his mind magics to guage the general mood of each and every guest. It wasn't his party, he had already sheepishly chided himself, but as proprietor of the Pen, he still felt an ingrained responsibilty. He walked quietly forward further, smiling at far off eyes caught, waving to those who noticed him but were otherwise engaged. The pennites in attendance took some small note of his mode of dress- not that it was that radical, but the fact that it was actually something on Ozy other than the robes of his mage school, his royal armor, sandals, and sword caught a few eyes. No, tonight, he was dressed in a softly black three-piece suit, shining black spats, and a gunmetal grey shirt adorned with a tie of deepest blue. All the colors meshed together to accent his bronzed skin and grey hair nicely. As he walked through the moonlight streaming in through the windows, however, he stood revealed in his best finery, as impossibly silver pinstripes appeared on his suit, catching *very* knowing glances from those whose recognized the material. Of those, Guido, Peredhil's Guinea Pig bodyguard was the only one to grin openly. Now dere's a guy who knows almost as much class as Da Boss. Mithril pinstripes! Ha! Wot'll elf tailors think of next? Ozymandias, meanwhile thought he had finally spotted his gracious hostess when his attention was snared immediately by his psionic senses detecting someone falling far too quickly unconscious. William. Following the echoes of the younger man's thoughts, the Phantasm mage traced him easily to where he had fallen. Struck with worry, but not wishing to make a scence if it were nothing, Ozymandias whispered, "Midi aeuda", and two things seemingly made of shadow themselves flowed from a nearby corner to William's side, one having already fetched him a glass of water and the other- with unearthly "arms" that angled properly could cut through anything on the material plane- gently but firmly helping the man up and into a chair.

Bravo!!! Heehee.

Any players who are delayed may still join...night isn't over until tomorrow morning at six... Please! Even late, fashionably or unfashionably so, come in! Come in! We're delighted to...have you. Heheheh.

Oo, neat! :>) Happy Halloween, Rune!

Good evening, my dear friends! Welcome to the party! Please, come on in, let me take your coat. Make yourself comfortable, we'll soon have you for-Soon have our dinner.... So the game begins. }:>) Our guests number eleven- that's right! Seven unassuming villagers, an esteemed Seer, a vigilant Wolfsbaner, and *two* hungry werewolves (hey, we're close enough to twelve! :>) ). Who managed to join us tonight, I wonder, braving this terrible storm...?

Well my friends, the trap, I mean, the mood is set. It is Halloween itself, and all the guests are arriving...unless we can expect surprises from the begining... At present, we have a complement of twelve. That's right folks, twelve unassuming guests, but how many will be lead to the slaught-err, punch bowl? It's almost time to begin. Once all twelve of the 'guests' (players) have posted as their party characters, we will begin, and no newcomers shall be allowed in. {:>( But that's not to say that last minute changes to the guest list don't happen. Last call for singup is to sign up for the game and post (and possible 'special' position) as a "Clue" character of your own devising before the twelfth member of this list posts their character: Yui Aegon Racouol Merelas Salinye Tamaranis Inspector I.M. Clueless Gwaihir Canid Ayshela Wrenwind Degenero Angelus More people by then or no, we shall begin, on schedule, at 12:00PM (EST) sharp. Remember...guests in sixes means more wolves! ...

Timothy slowly followed in friend and enemy's footsteps alike. His fever had begun to rage again, even as he heard the echo of battle meet him in the front hall. Every step a test of will, still he continued, disregarding too the stabbing pain in his chest. With each step, his vision swam. Still Timothy continued doggedly onward. Sulette...I may finally have my chance to atone. He passed a now unmoving corpse that was pinned to the wall by a dozen crossbow bolts. Gyrfalcon...you noble fool... Gyrfalcon grunts in fury and detrmination even as swinging his sword with all his might has met an equal measure in Jagon's arm and blade. He sweats profusely with the effort, a small corner of his mind idly amused by the fact that he's sweating and that he can't remember the last time he did. The rest is nearly consumed by a righteous wrath for this-this thing that seeks to murder all of his subjects, no all of the world on the pretense of all of them being evil. A sentiment he knew to be a pack of lies. While Gyrfalcon stood, Jagon would not succeed, he silently vowed to all he held dear, those whom had never known, and would never know. You told me right at the begining that everyone is worth saving... Even in the face of...of...the cold fact that many refuse to be saved, you still insisted...that it did not remove their being worthy of at least the attempt. I never understood why. Timothy continues his weary trek onward, for what feels like an eternity spent walking through water. He passes several more bodies that have been lacerated, dismembered, burned, and a myriad of other things. Even their sour stink barely registers on his consciousness. Kaleyra...Sweet, innocent Kal... Kaleyra narrows her eyes in preparation for what she had hoped to never even hear of a fellow avian doing to another living thing, let alone ever even imagine doing herself. She tore down every mental guard, all blocks, all filters she had to separate her consciousness literally from everyone else's, and did what could be called moving them behind her thoughts and feelings, pushing them out with a devil's speed in a tidal wave- all her anger, frustration, hurt, insecurity, anxiety, depression, jealousy, all pain, every corrupting thought she had ever known, as well as the echoes of that of every other Avian's, the miasma of a dying race- a titanic battering ram carefully aimed at one target: Jagon. He reeled with the impact, face a mask of pure agony. A scrap of rational thought she had saved for herself cheered. It lasted only a moment. You search for understanding as relentlessly as a wolverine stalks its prey. Knowledge is of utmost importance to you, and your entire race as well, I'd imagine. You fe...fe...feel, no...know that there is a reason for everything...You simply have to divine what. Crazy. Timothy smiled wanly to himself, even as he pitched forward, tripping over loose brickwork. He caught himself against the wall a hair's breadth away from falling face first on a very sharp stone. You're more like Grandmother that way than I had first guessed. Heh...it wasn't just in looks alone. Though your eyes...they are definitely...hers... Echoes of fighting had grown stronger now, even as he came to a large rockfall. Had he begun to lose consciousness? Timothy couldn't recall how he'd gotten there. Gingerly, glacially slowly, and determinedly, he began to climb. He swore he could hear a voice shouting, "You insolent fools." On the other side, he climbed out. He looked at the unnocupied prayer chamber dumbly. One look at his face showed almost as much sorrow as the rows of empty seats and unoccupied pulpit. Picking a corridor, he continued on. Even Myth..., he chuckled to himself, but the sound came out as more of a dry wheeze. He walked on, turning this way and that. The echoes grew louder and clearer still. Myth hissed her frustration openly as she swung her dagger again. She was using every killing stroke she knew, as well as a few she'd made up on the spur of the moment, and the creature bled. Only bled. Somehow, it properly deflected her strikes each and every time. It was begining to madden her. She refused to die to an anachronism! Even Myth...because after all, what would an assassin want with ultimate wisdom and peace, otherwise? Timothy came to a very ornately decorated room that had a ladder leading down. He began the arduous climb, though the sounds of battle had abruptly ceased. This had to be the place. Reaching the bottom of the ladder, he carefully dismounted and put his hand to his sword. Creeping forward as best he could, he heard soft moaning. Rounding the corner, he came into the large cavern and was dumbstruck- but only for a moment. Remaining eye opening wide upon spying Jagon, Timothy threw his head back and barked out mirthless laughter.

Excellent! Only four more guests, and we can have two wolves! Oooooo...OOooooo...Scary! Hmmmm. Ten more, and we'll have three...HEHEHEHEH Ozymandias scratches at his wrist absently. "These cuffs really chafe, Inspector. Do you have anything for suspects with sensitive skin?" ~ ~ Arf.

"Saved her life, boy.", Ozymandias snapped. I don't know who you are, and we don't have time to find out. But I am the master of these lands and will see you dealt with if you harm them or any of their denizens. Be you friend, help Yui watch over the fallen", he fairly commanded the intruder. "Be you foe...more immediate threats must be dealt with," said he, gently laying Salinye on the floor as he did so. Even in such an awkward position, Jirah was grudgingly impressed at how regally the elder man was suddenly moving and at the sheer force of quiet authority in his words. And perhaps...repressed rage? He had no further time to speculate even that briefly as the leather armored and blue-cloaked man surged forward, steely gaze set on a point beyond the younger man. He stopped short a step away from Jirah's side, however. This casual disregard for his alien prescence bothered the thief even more, even as he subtly moved a hand toward one of his finer daggers. It was Jirah's turn to halt as he heard this possibly mad or very powerful man say, in an almost gentle voice, "Yui-chan. Will you..." Ozymandias got no further than this when he received a quick but emphatic nod from the Huntress. "Go.", was all she said. His ire bayed for blood in fury and confusion; but only Jirah's confusion grew as this bizarre scene played out before him. One thing The Pen Keep's shadow huntress knew that Jariah did not, was that the seemingly decrepit Loremaster could indeed be uniquely suited to help in halting this attack. The entire surreal tableau lasted no more than a few seconds after Jariah's enterance to Ozymandias' then much more hurried exit. Jirah found himself with his eyes locked on now two mysterious women and his thoughts awhirl. Yui gazed steadily back, even as the sounds of battle poured in from outside and in.

Storm Clouds(n): 1.A gathering of malevolent, mysterious power. 2.Anger, fear, or simple hunger in their rawest form. 3.An imminent slap on our human socitey's wrist from God. See also:The Lord's ruler.

One clarification- There can be only one Wolfsbaner.

A thousand congratulations. You've earned it, a few times over. :>)

Just so's you know Salinye *is* right- She is. :>)

Ahhh, welcome, friends. May the night's tales be long, and the revels...juicy. That's two- we need at *least* four more! (But more than that are welcome!)

Come one, come all to my Halloween soiree (a thousand pardons, Celes, and every other French speaker out there for like as not butchered spelling), a masquerade of sorts, and a deadly delight for certain, MUHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You must all come in costume, and be ready to have fun amidst music, food, and dancing! And, as they say, it never hurts to be prepared for the worst. Heheheheh... Okay, here's the deal- I say, in our own signature style, let's have a Pen Halloween party- by playing a little game. Maybe you've heard of it; Werewolf? (No, *not* the RPG). Werewolf plays as follows: Signup for the game begins now, and ends at 12:00 AM, EST. There can be as many players as we want, but unfortunately, to keep it at least starting on Halloween, we'll have to stick to that timetable. Otherwise, it loses that holiday point, right? Per each six people signing up, there will be needed one Werewolf. There will be needed one Seer and one Wolfsbaner only. Everyone else will be a Villager. The game will begin at 12:00 PM EST on Halloween. This should give us a fair amount of elbow room for late arrivals, and the picking of characters. It will end at 5:00 PM EST on Nov. 3. The breakdown: Starting at 12:00 PM (EST) on Halloween the game (or party, as I originally referred to it) will begin. This will also begin the first "day" phase. All roles *must* be filled and the players *must* be introduced before 5:00 PM (EST) that same day. An earlier start than 12 can and will be done, if we're all ready. 5:00 PM starts the first night phase. During which the werewolf (or werewolves) will kill somebody, and will continue doing so (one a night!). Planning this can be done over PM between wolves (only!), but any kill MUST be told to me, the host/DM/whatever. After each kill is decided, I'll take it from there. Also, each night, the wolfsbaner will PM me with any one person they wish to protect from being killed, and then that person will be protected, that night. i.e., if the wolves choose him/her that night, they will be told to pick another target. If the Wolfsbaner wishes them protected again, they must request that person wolfsbaned gain whichever following night. The Seer, in turn, will each "night" receive a vision. What this entails is they may PM me each night phase and ask me if one person is a wolf. I wil tell them yes or no. Almost forgot- each night phase will end by 6:00 AM EST the next day. When a werewolf is suspected (i.e., once every day phase) the players *all* vote, and by a majority, will lynch a suspected werewolf. Anyone may be lynched, even if it turns out they are not a wolf. However, no matter what you are (Seer, Wolfsbaner, Werewolf, Villager), it is automatically revealed when you die. Also, when you die, you're outta here, game over. Sorry. The object as Villagers and 'specialists' is to lynch all wolves before game end. The object as werewolf is to escape scot free. The werewolf wins even if there are two or more, and their ranks are whittled down to a lone wolf. ***If you want to be a Werewolf, the Seer, or Wolfsbaner DO NOT SAY SO PUBLICLY.*** Again, PM or e-mail me. Or flag me down privately in IRC. Whatever works best. Finally, the costume party portion- A "costume" would again, only be appropriate, so in addition to normal rules, I've added a theme to our "party": Clue. Everyone must enter as a character who is based on a color. Roleplaying will NOT be required, but encouraged as much as each player should wish. However, please do at least pick a 'color-character' name. Lastly, have fun with it! Lie, conspire, whatever! Just remember- only the wolves are allowed to PM (or otherwise) plan! The rest goes on on the boards! (With the exception of Wolfsbaner and Seer rquests, that is).

It's always a pleasure to see new faces. I hope you enjoy your stay, and hope we get to read much of *your* writing!

*Ahem* A buddhist monk walks into Pizza Hut and says, "Make me one with everything." Ow! OW! No frozen tomatoes, please!! OW!!! /me runs offstage

Timothy sits in numb silence for what feels like a lifetime with Elena cradled gently in his arms. He gazes at the droves of corpses ringing them round like some demonic may festivitiy, her words the only sound in his head. ...so horrible... Tears, the first in nearly a decade, flow freely down his cheeks. Not wishing the dying woman to see, his quickly wipes blood and water away from his face, as he continues to cry a trail of cleansing down one cheek, and red down the other, from his ruined left eye; it had been lost, he realized, when one of the creatures had clawed his face. I hadn't even noticed, he thought with grim humor. Elena stirred again, and he pushed the pain from his face. Instead, he smiled softly down at her. "I'm here. I'll stay with you," he whispered hoarsely.

A brief surge of panic washed over Merelas as he saw the all-to familiar stylings of a Phantasm mage's robes worn on one of the onlookers. Even as he summoned his strength to cast even a basic fireball, however, he got a closer look at the man's face as he walked toward the battered wizard. The robes were too dark a blue, and the face lined from far too much more than concern to be his old foe, he realized in relief. There was a faint hiss and wisps of smoke curled from Merelas' fingertips as he let the fireball cancel out. Thankfully again, none seemed to notice. Crouching down next to this fiery stranger, Ozymandias spoke first. "This," he begins, gesturing to the proprietress," is Salinye Celestialgrace. Our hostess here in this hostel. You are in the lands of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword, Sir, and I myself, am Ozymandias, the Loremaster of the Pen. You have been taken in as we take in all strangers, with welcome and care, unless you prove to be a foe." The old man's face turned unsettlingly serious. "Then, circumstances become quite different."

The former king of all Egypt immediately asks, face serious, "What is wrong?" Upon Annael's recounting of all the events that had transpired, with quiet agreements voiced by the others, the Loremaster looks grave. "This reeks of magic or mind-skill. Tamaranis, being another victim and due to his vampiric nature the only other expert I know of in our keep, save myself, in such matters seems uniquely qualified to tell us much." "But he already said he doesn't know anything in his letter," replies a confused Daryl. "His expertise may make him a prime target, I mean." Ozymandias draws one final, deep breath to compose himself. "Let us hurry to him."

Timothy lurches along as fast as he can make his legs carry him, just barely staying at the rear of the Gyrfalcon and Elena. Suddenly, a tree looms up in front of him, and he manages to cushion the impact with an outsretched sweat-soaked palm at the last moment. He slumps against the tree in agonized relief, taking his breath in short, greedy gulps. Damn, damn! Those were the curchgoers from the mainland we fought. Of course they're rife with infection by now...or poison. Death... Or worse. My brothers... I fear your predictions will come to pass...but would that be so bad? The beleaguered adveturer gags on the literal and figurative bile in his throat. He wipes his mouth shakily. Damned right it would, boy. Kalyera...Sulette...Sulette, my sun...I won't fail you again...come Hell or high water. With a mighty heave, Timothy pushes himself back upright. Meanwhile, Gyrfalcon's battlefield commander's eye for his troops noted Timothy's abscence mere seconds after they had gone around the bend ahead of him. "Something's wrong," he shoots back at Elena, already striding quickly back down the path the way they had come. He comes upon a wan and wasted Timothy standing alone, staring blankly ahead. "Tim? Tim, it's Gyrfalcon, are you alright?" The young human fixes him with a steely gaze that his pallor belies. "I'm fine. Let's go." And with that, he slowly begins the jog forward again.

You're definitely off to a good start. Nullus anxietas.

Good journey to you, Tass. I'll miss having you (and new works from you!) around. To paraphrase Peredhil, hurry back, in whatver form you choose. Even if it's only for a "visit". Ars longa, vita brevis. (Art is long, life is short.)

Wow. And I mean, wow. It's times like this I find it almost laughable that some amazingly talented and (apparently!) everlastingly kindhearted individuals saw my familiar "face" pop up at this site, this place, this family they've created and not only welcomed me back with open arms, but gave *me* the credit for starting this. Me. The one who just wanted to use a hopefully neat idea to preserve truly awesome imaginations and talent within (let's face it, oldsters) a rather substandard online videogame. Today's Pen bears some light resemblence to the hopes I had for where we could go, if my pipe dream got off the ground, but when I had to leave our game world and all of my friends in it for awhile, then came back to find The Pen is Mightier than the Sword of, shoot two? Three years ago, now?- I was blown away. I still am. On almost a monthly basis, or even more frequently than that. It's humbling and wonderful to be a part of our venture here. For a time, I wrote because I wanted to remember *my* stories. The desire to write stories came from the joy and wisdom that the written words of so many others have given me through most of my life. When life became too much, and the strain seemed too great, then, from out of nowhere, came The Pen. I write now, because of all the old reasons, and The Pen the website, and The Pen, the people who are part of it. Learning with you, working with you, growing with you, even suffering with you has been indescribable. I write because I love it, and I know others love to read. I continue because of that, my faith in God (and desire to use the gifts he's given me to the fullest!), and you guys. It's kind of like Rune said- being here really helps me see through the eyes of a child, and it's actually a much, MUCH less frightening and difficult view and so much more exciting and so ecstatic an experience. Not much like the jaded, fearful, angry, selfish view I've developed in my life otherwise at all. Is a love of writing necessary to write? No. Is it necessary to able to write well? No. You can be really great without love. But love makes it greater, because I guarantee you, it flows into your work, even if you don't mean it too, and your reader will be able to tell. And that takes you beyond the (dare I say) mere diversionary entertainment (take me somewhat metaphorically, here. Imagination is SO important!) of imagining, to where you have brought even just a little light and happiness into someone else's life- someone you may never meet, or even know exists. THAT, my friends, is a miracle of the highest order possible. Can you be taught to write? Yes, otherwise we wouldn't be here. Even when we're not actively trying to teach one another, we learn from this fellow's example, or that fellow's. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me we're not doing what everyone else who has ever learned a thing has done. Go ahead. Try. :>)